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PETER THE HERMIT


PETER THE HERMIT:
$ đau nh : Tăng tars.
ni kie Holy .
AND OTHER POEM S.
BY
H. B. M. HUGHES,
STUDENT OF THE COLLEGE OF S.S. PETER AND PAUL, PRIOR PARK,
BATH.
SECOND EDITION.
ENTERED
AT
STATIONERS'
HALL,
BATH:
PRINTED BY J. LAMPARD, AT THE COLLEGIATE PRESS, PRIOR PARK
PRICE 2s.6d.


(RECAP)
Annex A)
PR4809
.4723447
BATH :
PRINTED AT THE COLLEGIATE PRESS, PRIOR PARK.


PRINCETON UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
STOWN PA
PAIR>
DIDINTELE 103
MOGU
52101 021190028
PREFACE.
KIND READER,
The welcome with which his first edition of
" PETER THE HERMIT" was received has induced the
Author to reprint it, and bring it before you in a
better dress ;--that which it wore before being too
homely even for a hermit.
.
It was intended that “ Peter the Hermit" should
form the first of a series of poems on the Holy
Wars, one for each crusade ; but that intention has
been, at least for the present, dropped. Indeed, he
feared lest, if it had been carried out, some good-
natured critic might have said, with Byron,
Al
“Cease thy varied song!
A bard may sing too often, and too long."
120boko.io
However, he is even now engaged upon another lay
5


iv
PREFACE
of the Crusades, yclept “RICHARD THE LION
Heart,” recounting the deeds of our noble King
against the Saracens --which will shortly appear.
The other pieces printed with this Second Edition
relate, some of them to the Crusades, and others to
subjects purely imaginary, or legendary. For these
he must apologize, as the roughness of the verse,
the
quaintness of the diction, and the variableness of
the style seem to demand it. He prays you to
bear in mind that they have been written at various
odd moments of recreation during the term at College,
and that they have therefore been composed under
different influences, and states of mind. Extend,
however, the same indulgence to this as to the
former work, and truly he will be very grateful
to you.
The Author here begs to acknowledge the deep
obligation he lies under to P. BROISE, his friend and
fellow-student, to whose talent as an artist the present
edition is indebted for its frontispiece, and ornamen-


PREFACE.
V
ation. Nor would he pass over in silence the kind-
ness he has experienced from many others, but
that, mayhap, they would not like to be mentioned,
though by their kind suggestions, and still kinder
criticisms, they have most materially assisted a young
and inexperienced author.
H. B. M. H.
Prior Park;
Feast of SS. Peter and Paul, 1855.


;
1


CONTENTS.
PAGE.
PETER THE HERMIT.
1
THE RACE FOR A SOUL
37
THE ANGEL OF DEATH
47
The Vision of King RICHARD.
.
69
.
THE LAY OF THE STANDARD.
.
80
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE .
87





A.M.D.G. ET H.B.M.V.
Peter the Hermit:
A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THE FIRST.
WAS a lily of the valley,
In simple beauty drest;
(A fellow-student gave it
To fix upon my breast,)
But while the flower was fading
And withering in my hand,
It drew my thoughts to days of yore
And to the Holy Land.
Methought some pious Pilgrim
First placed it in his scrip,
Ere he embarked at Joppa
In his homeward-wending ship,


INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THE FIRST.
And then with care had planted
The floweret near his cell,
That, gazing on't, he might recal
The scenes he loved so well.
Then did the blessèd Hermit
Rise ready to my thought,
And the many, many battles
The brave Crusaders fought;
And whilst my wandering fancy
Upon these matters ran,
Methought I'd sing how Peter preached,
And the Holy War began.


CANTO THE
FIRST.

CB
ISHOPS, and priests, and dark-
robed friars
Stood round in long array,
And many a knight, with armour
bright,
And pennon flaunting gay;
But the bells of Clermont all did clang
With a slow and solemn toll,
As though they called on the faithful, all,
To pray for some dead man's soul.
The gay plumes danced, and the helmets glanced
In the morning's sunny glow,
But dark and sad as a winter eve
Were the knightly brows below.
With many a whisper, hushed, and low,
The crowd around did stand,
'Till one might think some grievous ill
Had fall’n upon the land.
1


4
PETER THE HERMIT:
But one there stood above the rest,
(An humble Monk was he,)
His robe was coarse, his head was grey,
But his eye was bright and free.
He raised on high the holy rood,
(No other arms bore he,)
He spoke :~'twas like the gentle breeze
That fans a silent sea.
1
“My brethren, ye are Christian men,
At least, ye bear the name ;
And ye are knights! Then hear me, all,
And hear me to your shame.
The Saracen, the infidel,
Pollutes that sacred place,
Where God, a thousand years ago,
Lived 'mongst us face to face !
The base blasphemer of the Lord
O'er Judah holds his sway !
Sion, the blest, the well beloved,
Is made the Gentiles' prey !
The mount, where Jesus bleeding died,
The tomb-which once contained
His sacred formare with the blood
Of martyred pilgrims stained !


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
5
6
Oh, sacrilege ! the Saviour's tomb ?'
Ye
cry,
with horror pale!
Aye, ye do well to beat your breasts,
And groan, and weep, and wail !
Aye, groan! The blood of murdered saints
To heaven for vengeance calls !
Groan! For the wrath of God is dread
On whomsoe'er it falls !
'Tis hanging o'er the Saracens ;
But mark, (for God is just,)
Ye too are guilty in the sight
Of Him, in whom ye trust;
Ye heard the dying martyr's groans,
Nor to his rescue flew v;
Ye heard the injured virgin's shriek,
And yet no weapon drew !
Yet ye have pledged your knightly vow
Your swords should ever be
The prop of injured innocence,
The bane of tyranny!
E’en now your murdered brethren lie
Unburied on the plain!
Sion bath called on you for aid,
And shall she call in vain ?"


6
PETER THE HERMIT:
He paused. The crowd, astonished, gazed
Upon that wondrous man,
While through their ranks in various phrase
The growing murmur ran.
Just like the roar, at distance heard,
That tells of storm at sea,
And makes the sailor's spouse to clasp
The infant on her knee
More closely to her breast, and quake
Lest he should ne'er return,
For whom her vows to heaven are made
And her votive tapers burn.
But soon a gesture of his hand
Had calmed the murmuring throng,
And again his mighty accents rose
Like a storm-wind loud and strong.
66
Barons," he cried, " and yeomen, hear ;
Aye, hear me to your shame!
'Tis through your fault the infidels
Blaspheme God's sacred name!
'Tis through your fault the victims bleed
Beneath the Paynims' sword !
'Tis through your fault the heathen rule
The city of the Lord !


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
7
Ye waste your hours in revelry,
Whilst these your brethren slay!
Whilst these insult your Saviour's tomb,
Ye join the light tournay !
'Tis thus ye spend your hours, whilst they
Are pressing on! Nay, more,
Amongst yourselves ye strive ! Your swords
Are wet with Christian gore !
No wonder, then, the foes advance,
And the Crescent mounts on high,
When ye can tamely see the Cross
In dust dishonoured lie !
Ha ! your eyes flash !- Enough is said ;
Then let each gallant knight
Harness his war-steed, arm himself,
And hasten to the fight !
To arms, to arms ! and rear on high
The standard of the Lord !
Turn, turn against the Saracens
Your consecrated sword !
God wills it! Buckle on your arms,
And haste to meet the foe!
And may the God of armies guide
And bless you as ye go!"


8
PETER THE HERMIT:
He ceased. Awhile the mighty throng
Swayed fiercely to and fro,
Like waving corn, when warring winds
Against each other blow;
Then rose
the
cry,
6 God wills it, ho !
God wills it!"-young and old,
Noble and peasant, priest and friar,
Woman, and warrior bold,
All joined the cry! It pealed and rose
Like thunder, loud and long,
And guardian spirits made the words
The burthen of their song!
“God wills it!" was their gathering shout,
From rank to rank it flew,
Each warrior to his comrade called,
And each his weapon drew.
Aloft the standard of the cross
Was reared on every side ;
It waved above that countless host
In all its broidered pride;
The cross gleamed bright on every shield,
It blazed on every crest;
None could be seen who did not bear
The cross upon his breast !


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
9
The bells rang out in merry, merry rout,
Till the sacred towers did reel,
And each heart beat high, and bright was each eye,
At the sound of that joyous peal!
They pressed around that Hermit then
With reverence, and with awe,
Each seeking from his fiery words
New fervour still to draw.
They kissed the border of his robe.
Knights, priests, and noblemen.
And he was thought right favoured, who
Could win his blessing then.
That day to arms all Europe flew
Swayed by that wondrous man;
E'en as he spoke, the word went forth !
The Holy War began !


INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THE SECOND.
HOUGH much I wished, and it pleased
me well
I might not sing what next befel.
How the Pilgrims marched through
Europe wide;
How the wily Greeks to stay them tried;
How Nice was ta'en :-how Antioch fell,
Twere tedious to hear, and tedious to
tell ;
So my thoughts flew on, and I followed them
To the leaguered walls of Jerusalem.


CANTO THE SECOND.
HE morning sun was shining bright
O’er all the Holy Land,
When on the mount of Olivet
The Hermit took his stand.
From all the vale of Josaphat
The mist had rolled away,
And at his feet in gorgeous pride
The Holy city lay.
All silent was the lovely scene!
Scarce might you hear a sound
From out the leaguered city
Or the Christian camp around;
Save when upon the listening ear
Some sentry's footstep fell,
Or Paynim warder raised his voice,
And faintly cried, "All's well!"


12
PETER THE HERMIT:
The Hermit, smiling, viewed the sight;
His heart was free from care;
I ween he thought how good was God
Who'd made the world so fair!
But soon from out the city
There rose a fearful yell,
That on the old man's listening ear
In jarring discord fell.
'Twas from the holy sepulchre,
And from beside the Rood,
The Muezzins shrieked their morning prayer,
And called upon Mahmoud !
As at his rival's challenge shrill
Flashes the eagle's eye,
As he screaming stoops to the deadly swoop
From his craggy perch on high,
So flashed the hermit's eyes, I ween,
,
When he heard that taunting yell;
So shouting aloud to his God for aid,
On bended knees he fell.
“Oh, be Thou with our host this day,
Thou God of wrath!” he cried ;
“ Stretch forth thy strong right arm to aid,
And tame the Paynims' pride!”


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
13
Then starting up, he grasped his staff,
And his girdle tighter drew,
And rushing down into the camp,
From tent to tent he flew.
“Awake!” he shouted, “ don your arms,
Ye warriors of the Lord !
Awake, awake! and lay your hands
On battle-axe and sword!
Hear ye not how the Saracens
Blaspheme God's Holy Rood ?
'Tis from the height of Calvary
They call upon Mahmoud !
Haste! sound the battle trumpet;
Let the banner's folds float wide!
March on, march on,—to victory!
For God is on our side!
E'en now yon city's haughty towers
Are tottering to their fall,
Terror is lurking at her gates,
And fear is on her wall!
March
on,
march on ! God wills it;
Ye fight at His command !
If the Lord of Hosts be with you,
Who can your might withstand ?"
с


14
PETER THE HERMIT:
He ceased. From out the crowded tents,
In an ever-varying stream,
The troops poured forth, all silently,
Like pageants in a dream.
a
First one by one, as rain-drops come,
That fall before a shower;
And then in crowds, like the water-spout
At the height of the tempest's power.
a
Anon they raised a furious din,
They shouted, and they sang,
And clashed their swords against their shields,
Till the hollow metal rang.
At first 'twas like the cracking sound
That warns him of a flaw,
Who walks upon a frozen lake
When the ice begins to thaw;
But soon 'twas like the crash of rocks,
And the fall of shattered pines,
When the avalanche comes thundering down
The lofty Apennines.
On, on they rolled in serried ranks,
Norman and Piotevin,
Gascon, Breton, and Provençal,
In mingled legions ran.


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
15
The Danish axe, the Saxon bill,
Went bristling side by side,
And sturdy Flemings poured along,
To swell the battle tide.
Next marched along in gloomy files
The sons of ruined Rome,
To seek that fame in other lands
Which they had lost at home.
The wily Greeks were ranged beside
The warriors of Almaine;
All Europe's chivalry were there,
Save the gallant Knights of Spain.
(Yet blame them not—their hearts were true,
But their land from shore to shore
Rang to the clash of hostile arms,
And the war-cry of the Moor.)
And truly they were chiefs of note
Who led that army on:
The first, and bravest of them all,
Was Godfrey of Bouillon.
Tancred the next, whose youthful fame
Had made all Europe ring,
Bohemond, Raymond of Toulouse,
And Edgar Atheling,


16
PETER THE HERMIT:
And there was Hugh of Vermandois,
And Robert of Normandie,
And a thousand more, I cannot name,
The flower of chivalry !
The Hermit felt his bosom heave,
And his heart within him glow,
As he stood again upon the mount,
And viewed the troops below.
Along their dense and glittering lines
One brightening glance he cast,
Then raised his venerable hands,
And blessed them as they passed.
And then upon a mossy stone,
That close beside him lay,
He sat, and leaned upon his staff,
To watch the coming fray.
By fifty priests, at fifty shrines,
The Holy Mass was sung,
And the Christian army earthward bent,
As the warning bell was rung.
a
Then up they rushed with a cheerful shout,
And to their posts they flew,
Whilst long and loud on every side
The din of battle
grew.


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
17
As round some rugged sea-girt isle
The wild waves fiercely play,
Climb the huge rocks with roaring din,
And scatter clouds of
spray;
So round those walls the Christian host
Rolled onwards, wave on wave,
Each living billow surging white
With plumes and pennons brave.
Up, up—they strove to mount the walls
The lofty towers to gain;
But the foemen cried, “Ye must learn to fly,
Or ye strive to mount in vain !"
Stung by the taunt, the knights pressed on;
The battle fiercer grew:
Deadly and swift the bowstrings hissed,
And clouds of arrows flew.
The scorpion and the catapult
Sent forth an iron shower;
The tortoise moved with stealthy pace,
To sap each Paynim tower.
Loud was the crash of battlements,
When the pond'rous stones 'gan fall,
And the forceful swing of the battering-ram
Came thundering at the wall.


18
PETER THE HERMIT:
Loud and wild was the Moslems' yell,
When the winged deaths amongst them fell,
But they kept their stations still ;
And when the engines nearer drew,
Their fire-balls struck so fierce and true,
That they mocked the Christians' skill.
From arrow-slit in wall and tower
Their archers poured so sharp a shower,
And from each lofty roof
Their slingers struck at man and steed
So well, our soldiers had good need
Their arms were missile-proof!
As the waves fall back from a sea-beat rock,
So shrank our host from the deadly shock,
Slowly and sad, I ween;
I
And as their baffled foes withdrew,
The Moslems shouted, “ Allah hu !"
And waved their standards green.
But soon the Paynims' yell was hushed,
And the rising hope within them crushed,
As, fiercer than before,
That foe came rushing back again,
And darts flew thick as winter rain
When midnight tempests roar.


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
19
Next, to the fight three moving towers,
Lofty, and vast, and strong,
With many a spirit-stirring shout,
The Christians dragged along.
But ere they drew them to the moat
The gates were opened wide,
And out the Moslem legions poured,
Strong as the rushing tide.
Then brayed the trumpet loud and shrill !
Then axe, and sword, and gleaming bill,
Clashed loudly in the strife.
No space was there for bolt, or dart,
But each aimed at the other's heart,
And fought for very life!
As in the Maelstrom's fearful round
The tortured billows leap and bound
With loud and ceaseless roar,
Whilst ocean's various spoils uptorn
Are on the heaving waters borne,
And piled upon the shore ;
So round those towers the livelong day
Eddied and raged the maddening fray !
The din of clashing blows
Was mingled with the deadly yell,
When ponderous mace, or falchion fell,
And loud the war-cry rose !


20
PETER THE HERMIT:
So heaps on heaps of corpses pale,
With battered helms, and riven mail,
Were rolled beneath the fray ;
And, trampled by their fellow men,
The Christian and the Saracen
In death united lay.
At last within the foremost tower
The fire-fiend raged in pride and power,
The red flames darted high.
Short time the monster blazing stood,
And soon the crash of crackling wood
Told that its fall was nigh.
Then did the Hermit cast the dust
Upon his hoary head,
For he saw that the foemen's arm prevailed,
And the Christian army fled.
Prostrate he prayed the Lord of Hosts
That He would send them aid;
Would strengthen each Crusader's arm,
And break each Paynim blade.
E'en as he spoke,-on Olivet
There stood a wondrous knight,
Whose limbs were sheathed in burnished gold,
And shone sublimely bright !


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
21
Thrice waved he high his golden shield,
And thrice his glittering blade,
Whilst muttering thunders o'er him rolled,
And the lightning round him played.
The Christians turned with a cry of joy
When they saw that glorious sight,
But the conquering foemen backwards drew,
And fled in wild affright!
The old man saw the towers advance,
Their pond'rous bridges fall,
And Godfrey plant the blessed cross
Upon the city wall;
a
And then he heard a thundering sound,
Like the roar of a stormy sea ;
'Twas the mingled yell of the foe's despair,
And the shout of “Victory!"
Oh, then he turned him to his God,
His grateful thanks to pay;
But his heart,-it was too full for speech:
He fell, and swooned away!
}


INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THE THIRD.
wim
vi

-
O hear 't were sad,- to tell 't were
pain,
How Moslem blood was shed like
rain
Throughout that dreadful day!
Oh, happy was the Hermit's lot,
Whilst (these sad scenes of woe
forgot)
He yet unconscious lay!
But when he'woke him from his trance,
What desolation met his glance,
As on the mount he stood !
The Christians' shout, the Paynims' yell,
Told how the silver Crescent fell
Before the Holy Rood.
On minaret, and gay kiosk,
On palace fair, and gorgeous mosque,
The morning sun had shone;
But when that sun at evening set,
Fallen was the graceful minaret,
The stately mosque was gone !


INTRODUCTION TO CANTO THE THIRD.
23
He turned him sadly from the sight,
For he could not bear to see the light
Of the fires that gleamed below;
It made him think of that dread day
When heaven and earth shall melt away
In the last fire's awful glow !
When next he turned, 'twas silent all !
The ruined fanes had ceased to fall,
The hostile fires to blaze ;
So down he passed, and joined the throng,
To the blessed Tomb that poured along,
To sing their Saviour's praise.


CANTO THE THIRD.
0
H, who can paint the glorious scene
Which met the Hermit's eye,
When mingling with the crowd he
reached
The church of Calvary?
A thousand torches shed their light
Around the Saviour's tomb,
But the rest of that vast minster lay
Shrouded in twilight gloom.
The pillars threw a dark strong shade
On the marble floor below,
Like the shadow of trees in a moonlit glade
On the face of the frozen snow.
Each lofty arch showed loftier still
In that uncertain light,
But the eye was lost in the murky gloom
Of the dome's stupendous height !


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
25
Within, without, all round about,
The Christians knelt and prayed;
Doffed was each plumèd helmet now,
And sheathed each conquering blade.
Prelate, and prince, and knight of name,
Knelt humbly, side by side,
With sandalled friar, or lowly squire,-
That was no place for pride !
There many a contrite sinner prayed
And wept for sins gone by,
While his guardian angel o'er him bent
In silent ecstacy!
Others were there who prostrate lay
Around each sacred spot,
And, rapt in meditation sweet,
All other things forgot;
But there was none who dared to cast
One mocking glance around, -
The infidel forgot to sneer
Upon such holy ground.
Hark!—'twas the trumpet's warning note !
They rose with one accord,
Ready with heart and voice to sing
The praises of their Lord.
D


26
PETER THE HERMIT:
At first, 'twas but a wavering note
On the listener's ear that fell;
But soon it rose, magnificent,
In one majestic swell!
“Te Deum laudamus!" great and small,
With one accord they sang,
'Till far and wide, through arch and aisle,
The mighty accents rang!
But when the notes began to roll
The lofty dome around,
It seemed as though the church did rock
With the very force of sound !
Loudly they sang, and joyously,
In rich harmonious tone-
A living organ, framed to sound
The praise of God alone.
Such music ear ne'er heard before,
Nor hoped to hear again;
God's praise in one great chorus sung
By fifty thousand men !
Awhile adown the Hermit's cheeks
The silent tear-drops stole,
As that full tide of glorious notes
Came sweeping o'er his soul;


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
27
But soon a thousand 'wildering thoughts
Of pleasure and of pain,
Of triumphs won, of labours past,
Came crowding through his brain.
1
He thought, I ween, of the time when he
Came to that church before,
And the Moslems mocked his humble garb,
And drove him from the door.
How he had journeyed painfully,
Fainting with toil and care,
Until he came and laid his griefs
Before Saint Peter's chair.
Methinks he thought of Clermont, too,
Where, scarce a year before,
He'd raised his voice, 'till Christendom
Was roused from shore to shore.
Then came the traitor to his mind,
Colman of Hungarie,
And the countless host of Christians slain
By a Christian's treachery.
How, too, the wily Greeks had tried
To stop his course in vain ;
How Nice had fallen before his host,
How Antioch was ta'en;


28
PETER THE HERMIT:
But now he saw his labours o'er,
And the Holy City won:
What mighty kings had failed to do,
An humble monk had done!
And was it pride that brought that flush
Upon the old man's brow?
Had he so long the fiend defied,
But to be conquered now?
No: God forefend! He who had served
His God in sorrow's gloom,
Surely could not a recreant prove
Beside his Saviour's tomb ?
No! ere the thought was fully formed
In that reflective mood,
A stranger knight, in armour bright,
Sudden beside him stood.
The Hermit's cheek grew deadly pale,
As his eye the stranger's met,
For by that lightning glance he knew
The Knight of Olivet!
Humbly he followed at his beck,
'Till they passed the portal high,
And stood in silence side by side
Beneath the midnight sky.


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
29
“ Who art thou?" then the Hermit cried,
“ And what is thy demand?”
With a silent glance the knight replied,
And pointed with his hand
а.
To where a ruined altar lay,
O'erturned upon the sod,
That men had raised in days gone by
To some old heathen god.
Some earthquake, sure, had laid it low?
Far otherwise, I ween!
'Twas but the root of a little plant
That
grew
those stones between.
Around each fallen and broken stone
Its slender roots were twined,
While its long green leaves, and flowerets pale,
Waved in the passing wind.
Right modestly those long green leaves
Its lovely flowers did shade,
And it hung its head, as though ashamed
Of the ruin it had made.
The silent lesson reached his heart,
The proud glance left his eye;
He felt that he was but a tool
In the hands of the Most High!
a


30
PETER THE HERMIT:
He turned to thank his guide—but lo!
Fresh wonders met his sight!
A blessèd angel stood confest,
In a flood of glorious light!
Yes, it was he of the fiery sword !
Clad in bright panoply,
First of Heaven's chivalry,
Michael, who leadeth the host of the Lord!
For a moment his eye on the Hermit shone;
Then over hill and plain
Night spread her wings again :
The fair light had vanished !—the spirit was gone !
Trembling, the astonished Hermit lay
Prostrate upon the sod;
And till the sun at morning shone,
He communed with his God.
At morn he rose, with an altered mien,
And westward went his way;
But whither he went, no mortal wight
From that time forth could say !


CONCLUSION.

N old man dwelt in a lonely cell,
In distant Picardie ;
No living wight his name could tell,
But a holy man was he!
He fed on herbs and bitter roots,
With coarsest bread and forest fruits,
He drank of the crystal spring;
All day he'd sit in a shady nook
And meditate with bead or book,
At night God's praise he'd sing.
And it were easy to be seen
That he in Palestine had been,
For he wore the scallop shell ;
And, framed of sacred olive wood,
A pilgrim's staff and bottle stood
In a corner of his cell.
A little garden, fenced with care,
Lay round the humble cot,
And many a flower, both sweet and fair,
Grew in that lovely spot.


32
PETER THE HERMIT:
Around the porch the wild rose twined,
And the ivy shook to the summer wind
Its leaves of glossy green;
Whilst, underneath, the primrose grew,
And the violet hid its flowerets blue
The mossy stones between.
But fairer far than all the rest,
A little flower, with snowy crest,
Grew close beside the cell.
There it was placed by the Hermit's hand,
When he brought it from the Holy Land;
I ween he loved it well!
Ofttimes o'er that flower he wept,
For something he had done;
But, as he ever silence kept,
That something in his bosom slept,
And was revealed to none,
Save to the priest, who had him shriven,
And made the sinner's peace with heaven.
But day by day this was the song
The peasants heard, who passed along
By the Hermit's lowly cot,
(Nor afterwards, for many a day,
When the holy man was laid in clay,
Were the sweet words forgot.)


A LAY OF THE HOLY WARS.
33
“Sweet are the drops that flow
From the wounded cassia tree ;
Sweet are the gales that blow
O'er the isles of the Indian sea;
Sweeter the tears
Of one who weeps for sin,
And the sighs that tell
Of a contrite heart within !"
(0
T





THE
RACE FOR A SOUL.





The
Bace for a Soul.
INSCRIBED TO
THE VERY REV. THOMAS CANON ROOKER, D.D.,
PRESIDENT OF PRIOR PARK.
>
'Tis a fearful night! The wind
Around the quaking turret shrieks;
Scarce can they hear the sick man's
voice,
As still these trembling words he
speaks :
“ Ride out, ride out,-some Christian
knight,
For holy charity!
Ride out, and seek a holy priest,
And bring him unto me!”
a
He speaks of fearful things that float,
In selcouth forms before his eyes, ,
And ever and anon he moans,
And thus in doleful accents cries :
" Ride out! for God from storm and ill
The messenger will shield;
And, oh! 'tis dreadful thus to die,
Unhouselled, unanealed !"
E


38
THE RACE FOR A SOUL.
A little page sate by the fire,
'Mid knights and squires of high degree:
None dared to brave the pelting storm“
None thought to mount—but only he.
“ Lie still !" he cried," so God me guard;
”
Me aid, our sweet Ladye !
I go to seek a holy priest,
And bring him unto thee."
--
The storm was fierce,-it fiercer blew;
The night was dark,-it darker grew :
No moon was there, or star to guide ;
All fordless roared the torrent's tide;
The trees above him groaned and tossed,
Like tortured forms of spirits lost;
And, 'mid the thunder's sullen growl,
Was heard the fierce wolf's hungry howl:
But, heedless of the rushing wind,
He left the castle gates behind;
All fearless of the waters' roar,
He swam the fordless torrent o'er;
He cared not for the thunder's growl;
And when he heard the were-wolf's how),
He inly called on God for aid,
And grasped and drew his trusty blade.
Sometimes, indeed, his heart beat fast,
As, louder than the tempest blast,
Shrill peals of laughter, sharp and drear,
Would ring from every thicket near,-


THE RACE FOR A SOUL.
39
And forms of evil, gaunt and grim,
Would cross the path in front of him.
Some whooped and laughed, as though in glee;
Some yelled in bitter agony;
Like fiery wheels, some rolled before ;
Some followed him with hideous roar
Some strove him from his path to lead,
Some strove to 'fright his gallant steed:
But when he reared his cross-hilt blade,
The frightful phantoms fled dismayed;
And, spite of storm and demon's rage,
He reached at length the hermitage.
“Rise, holy father! rise in haste,
And wend along with me!
My master lies on his dying bed,
And has sent in haste for thee.
“ He was in his mortal
agony,
When I left the castle gate:
Mount, father-mount! we must away,
Else shall we be too late."
The father hath mounted-away! away!
Through the wild wood's shadowy paths they
few;
The tempest, that had been wild before,
Each moment wilder and wilder grew,


40
THE RACE FOR A SOUL.
Amongst the trees it whistled and screamed,
And many an oak, and elm, and ash,
Yielded before its strength, and fell
Beside the path, with a thundering crash.
And demon faces gibber'd and grinned
From every thicket along their track,
And they were 'ware of a swarthy hound
That followed ever behind their back.
a
On, on they flew, with a whirlwind's speed,
Straining to reach their distant goal;
They knew they were running a fearful race,
And the prize to be won was the baron's soul!
On, on! for still the swarth-hound's bay
Follows them through the tempest's roar;-
'Twill bode the baron fearful ill,
If he should be first at the castle door.
But no, but no,-'twill not be so,
For there is One on the hermit's breast,
Who lieth concealed in a lowly form,
And wrappeth Him round in an humble vest.
Twas He !-that God who humbler is
Than all the creatures that are His;
Who hides His Majesty Divine
Beneath the veils of Bread and Wine;


THE RACE FOR A SOUL.
41
And-Spring of purity and good-
Becomes the meanest sinner's food.
A God of mercy, a God of love,
He hath hied Him down from His throne above;
He will not suffer the fiend to gain
A soul He hath purchased with blood and pain.
The father, he pattered his Ave-beads,
The page, he spurred and he prayed alsò;
And, as they prayed, the swarth-hound's pace
Yet slower became, and yet more slow.
And they were 'ware of a dazzling light
That shone on the path 'twixt him and them,
Just like the beams that streamed of
yore
On the holy shepherds of Bethlehem.
a
And they could hear a rustling sound,
Like the quivering beat of a thousand wings;
For the air above, and the air around,
Was peopled with countless lovely things.
Although the storm still howled around,
And strained and crashed in the forest trees,
It seemed to them to be far away,
For nought them reached but a gentle breeze.


42
THE RACE FOR A SOUL:
Although across their homeward way
The stream still fretted, and chafed, and roared,
The good steed heeded it not a whit,
But over it passed by an easy ford.
The castle hill was rugged and steep,
But the noble charger scaled it well;
One last, strong effort,-he crossed the moat,
And dead at the very gate he fell.
a
When to the stream the swarth-hound came,
He might not cross in a borrowed form;
So he rose like a mist from the torrent's brink,
And followed the chase on the driving storm.
But, demon, cease !-thy toil is vain;
The prey is delivered, -tbe chase is o'er :
Thou art strong, thou art strong, in this world
of sin;
But One shall conquer thee evermore !
In vain, in vain,
Is all thy pain,
For He is first at the castle door!
Ere half the hour-glass sands were run,
The struggle was o'er-the prize was won.
The angel of death, with gentle hand,
Had beckoned the soul to that blessèd land,


THE RACE FOR A SOUL.
43
Where doubt, nor fear, can enter in,
But only sorrow for pardoned sin;
Where, for a time, the soul must moan,
Its imperfections to atone,
"Till God most gentle-God most mild,
Stretch forth His hand to His chastened child,
And clasp him close to His pitying breast,
In endless glory, and endless rest.
Houselled and shriven, the soul had fled,
But the body still lay on its gorgeous bed.
The cheek-flush, the eye-flash, had passed
away:
'Twas but a model of shapely clay.
Long they knelt by the noble dead;
Many a tear they o'er him shed;
And many a warrior rude was there,
Who rarely bethought him of bead or prayer,
Now sadly silent round him stole,
And inly prayed, "God rest his soul!"
The Father, he rose from his bended knees,
As the morning light through the casement
broke;
But, ere he wended his homeward way,
'Twas thus to the little page he spoke:


44
THE RACE FOR A SOUL.
“God bless thee! God bless thee, thon gentle
page!
Thou hast served thy master well!
Others have o'er him held their shield,
And saved his life in the battle-field;
But thou hast for him risked thy life,
And for him waged a fiercer strife,
'Gainst demon wiles, and storm-wind's rage,
To save his soul from hell !
“God loves the man who freely gives
His goods unto the poor ;
The friend of the captive and the sick
Heaven's kingdom doth ensure.
H
" If for such deeds so fair a meed
Lie at the heavenly goal,
What shall he gain who by his pain
Hath saved a priceless soul ?”


THE
ANGEL OF DEATH,


1
---
1


The Angel of Death.
INSCRIBED TO
MGR. THE VERY REV. THOMAS PROVOST BRINDLE, D.D., &c. &c.

1.
HI
ARK! 'Twas the clock struck twelve!
Ding! ding! ding! ding! ding! ding!
Ding! ding! ding! ding! ding! ding!
And the old Dutch clock behind the
door
Went on, tick! tack! as it did before;
As though the stroke on its little bell
Had never sounded a sinner's knell.
Yes! 'twas the clock struck twelve !
a
“'Tis the turn of the night!” the
old-wife said,
As she dozed by the side of the sick man's bed.
Trembling, she trimmed her flickering lamp;
She touched his forehead,—'twas chill and damp;
-


48
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
And he turned in his bed uneasily.
Ah, me!" she cried, “ his sand is run!
He ne'er will see the rising sun!
Ah, me! I thought it would be so;
For the watch-dog bowled in the court below,
And the clock struck wond'rous drearily!"
a
'Twas a rich bad man who lay dying there,
Who'd never bethought him of alms or prayer.
He had gathered wealth,--a boundless store;
Honours he'd won, and had grasped at more:
Now honours and wealth had flown!
Who cared for him now? His sons ? No, no!
They had gotten his wealth,—what heeded they mo'?
The very nurse in fear has fled, -
Spirits of evil were there!” she said :
She has left him to die alone.
Hark! 'Twas the clock struck one!
If any were there, his eye might trace
A something that passed o'er the old clock's face,
Like the shadows that flit of a winter night
On a cottage wall in the dim fire-light,
When the father and mother sit silently,
And the child and dog play joyously.
And if he looked in the sick man's eye,
He'd see 't was the Angel of Death went by;
For the eye was glassy, and cold, and dim,
And stiff as brass was each lifeless limb.


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
49
Was it a prayer, or was it a groan,
That left those lips ere the spirit had flown?
No: it was neither a groan nor a prayer;
Silent he died in his deep despair ;-
'Twas but the clock struck one!
w
II.
Of the first night watch,-seven bells !
The moon was bright in a cloudless sky;
The pendant drooped from the topmast high ;
Unmoved, in many a gay festoon,
The sails gleamed white beneath the moon;
And on the face of the crystal sea
The ship lay still as a ship might be.
But why, when, o'er the waters round,
Rang forth the bell's accustomed sound,
Did the seamen start so fearfully,
And drink it in so greedily?
'Twas to their ears a well-known sound,
But to-night they start as the word goes round,
Of the first night watch,-seven bells !
'Twas a lovely bark; but, oh! within
She was laden with sorrow, and pain, and sin.
F


50
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
The groans of the captive African,
Unheeded, unheard by his fellow-man,
Went up, from her hold, on high!
,
There, in the depths of her darkling womb,
They lay in heaps in their living tomb.
Some prayed for water,—some begged for air;
Some only shrieked in wild despair,
And laid them down to die.
But, heedless of their agony,
The crew but cursed the glassy sea,
The fair, bright moon, and the flagging wind;
For darkness and storm to a slaver's mind
Are a good and a grateful boon.
Curse not, curse not, poor fools ! for ye
May live to pray for a calmer sea,
And curse yourselves, in your despair,
For the daring wish, and the impious prayer,
That was answered all too soon!
a
No thought of ill,—no fear of woe!
No pity for those who groaned below!
On the moonlit deck, to the thrilling flute,
And the joyous sound of the tinkling lute,
The seamen are dancing merrily!
Music, and jesting, and merry song,
And laughter jocund, and loud, and long !
No thought that the Death Spirit's hovering nigh,


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
51
Each heart beats lightly, and dances each eye,
As the rattling dice fly cheerily!
Hark! 'Twas a whisper faint and low!
From stem to stern it seemed to go.
It moved not the pennon,-it stirred not a sail,-
But every man, at the sound, grew pale;
And, as each looked in his neighbour's facer
A fearful something he there might trace.
Some said 't was a spirit that passed them by;
Some said it was only the land wind's sigh:
But the laugh and the music have died away,
And the gamester has left his noisy play;
None know what doth them thus appal,
But a nameless terror has seized them all.
a
See! 'Tis the lightning! See !
It quivered a moment,-it struck the mast;
The thunder roared, and all was past!
But the good ship-where is she?
She is gone! She has sunk in the waters deep,
And the slave and the slaver united sleep,
Where the pearl-shell shines, and the dolphins
play,
And the white-shark gloats o'er his festering prey.
'Twas the Angel of Death on the blast went by!
He looked on the bark with an angry eye;-


52
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
The sentence was passed, and the death-bolt
flew,
And loud was the shriek of the perishing crew.
Short shrift was theirs,-scant time to pray ;-
They were gone, ere the echoes had ceased to
say,
“Of the first night watch,--seven bells!"
9
III.
a
-
ON Great St. Bernard fell the snow,
And the traveller scarce the path might know;
He'd many a weary mile to go,-
He must not shrink nor stay.
Though fierce the storm, he hurried on;
But scarce one little mile had gone,
Ere the deep snow all round him shone,
The track was swept away.
He looked behind, he looked before,-
The snow had covered his footsteps o'er,
And soon he was bewildered sore,
No landmark could he find.


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
53
He shouted loud, he shouted long;
But though his voice was shrill and strong,
As feebly as a small bird's song
'Twas borne upon the wind.
Aye! feebler than the sea-mew's shriek,
When
up the narrow, rocky creek,
The sea-waves roll, and burst, and reek,
And roars the tempest loud.
One more long cry! He sank full low
Upon the face of the yielding snow;
And cold and silent, soft and slow,
It hid him like a shroud.
a
E'en as he sank, he breathed a prayer!
Words which, from him, were few and rare,
Went up upon the midnight air,
In supplication deep.
Nor was it vain. He heard the cry,
He who, in ages long gone by,
Answered repenting Jonah's sigh,
Down where the sea-wolves sleep.
Oh! he had been an evil man!
All ill that human creature can,
In maddest mood of sin, but plan,
He had both planned and done.


54
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
Yet,-oh! how merciful is God,
E'en when He holds the chastening rod !
Though hell's dark paths so long he'd trod,
His prayer acceptance found !
A monk unto the abbot came,
And asked permission, in God's name,
At that untimely hour, to go,
And seek for travellers in the snow.
“Something within me says," said he,
- There's one in mortal agony,
E'en now enshrouded in the snow:
In God's name, father, let me go !”
The abbot leave and blessing gave:
“Brother, may God thee guide and save !"
And he, with hot and prayerful haste,
Started at once upon the waste.
His faithful dog was at his side,
The brother's eager steps to guide.
Nor long nor vainly searched they round,
For soon the wanderer they found.
his brow;
But soon 't was brushed from thence, I trow,
As dog and brother joined to save
The stranger from his living grave.
The snow was thick
upon


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
55
Stiff were his limbs, and scarce his breath
Belied the fixed, cold look of death;
But though Death's Angel hovered nigh,
He might not strike. He did not die !
The brother plied with thoughtful care
The little flask of cordial rare;
And in his mantle wrapped him warm,
To guard him from the pelting storm.
The dog, too, with half human wit,
Close by the stranger's side would sit,
And clasp him with his hairy feet,
As though to give him vital heat.
Oh, brother, brother, guard thee well!
This biting blast on thee may tell,
And thou may'st pay most fatally
For thine exceeding charity!
But there he sat upon the snow,
Though frore and shrill the wind did blow;
And only bade the dog go back,
To lead the brethren on their track.
The dog he ran, the dog he flew,
But still the cold wind colder grew;
And, ere they left the convent gate,
Their aid, for one, had come too late.


56
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
For, when the brethren came, they found
The stranger sitting on the ground,
Wrapped in the brother's mantle warm,
And guarded well from cold and storm.
But by his side the monk they found,
With but his cassock girt around,
The snow-drift only clothed his head.
Gently they raised him,-he was dead !
God rest and bless thee, hero brave !
Unnoticed is thy humble grave;
But who to the God of charity
Hath offered sacrifice like thee?
Thy life, thy all, that thou hast given,
May't be thy passport into Heaven !
And be this carved upon thy grave:
“He died, a stranger's life to save !"
And he, that stranger, where is he
For whom he died so valiantly?
There is a monk who kneels to pray
Beside his tombstone day by day,
a
And every night, when howls the storm,
Puts on his mantle, wide and warm,
And kneels before the abbot's chair,
And ever makes the self-same prayer:


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
57
“ Loud howls the storm,—the snow lies deep;
Let me go forth, my watch to keep,
Lest some one perish in the snow.
In God's name, father, let me go!"
TOWN
-
If such a man thou chance to see,
Mark him well, reader,—that is he!
IV.
“Oh! would it were morning!" the mother said,
As she sat on the cold, damp ground.
The rain came down through the roof o'erhead,
And the children were crying aloud for bread,
Where bread could not be found.
One cake of meal was all her store;-
She had given them that, and they cried for more.
Even the babe at her breast must die,
For the fountains of nature, through want, were dry.
She had striven to light the fire, in vain,-
For the turf was wet with the pelting rain;
So there in darkness and cold they lay,
Longing and praying for break of day.


58
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
When pillowed in softness the rich man lies,
Darkness is sweet to his weary eyes;
The labourer, seeking his humble bed,
Gives thanks for the darkness that shrouds his head;
a
But though so sweetly on such it fall,
To the wretched it is but a murky pall,
And many and sad are the prayers they say,
As they wearily watch for the light of day.
She hath felt for her children, and drawn them
nigh,
She hath laid her down in the midst to die;
And when the Angel at last came he,
I ween, she greeted him smilingly.
In faith and love she had served her God;
She had humbly bowed to His chastening rod;
And rather had chosen of want to die,
Than be false to her faith, or her God deny.
Oh, Erin! fair Erin! What faith is thine!
What incense aye fumes from thy storm-beaten
shrine !
In the path of the martyrs thy children have trod,
And many thy saints in the kingdom of God!


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
59
God bless thee! thou pearl on the dark world's
brow!
There are isles in the ocean far fairer than thou,
More fertile, more wealthy, in glebe and in mine,-
But none have been blessed with a blessing like
thine!
They were six,—the mother, and children five;-
Not one in the morning was left alive!
They were gone, in the arms of their loving Lord,
To reap for ever their bright reward.
Six blessed martyrs heavenward flew,
Though their bones unnoticed lie;
For know, they would not now be dead,
If the mother had sold her soul for bread;
But rather she chose to die!
V.
A VULTURE sat on a drooping palm,
By the side of a desert well.
The night was clear, and still, and calm,
The air was laden with spice and balm,
And the cold dew gently fell;


60
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
But still he sat on the drooping tree,
And gazed o'er the plain right cheerily.
God guard us all! What did he see,
That he was so content ?
I
ween,
it was no omen good,
To see that bird in such a mood,-
He is ever on evil bent.
The caravan ! the caravan!
Through the desert sands they rode, they ran;
They strained, they strove who should be first
To reach the well, and quench their thirst;
But, oh! how fearful was their cry!
They reached the well,--and found it dry !
The vulture screamed from the withered tree,
When he heard that mournful cry!
He knew full soon a feast they'd be
For him, and others such as he;
And he watched not long, nor wearily,
'Till they laid them down to die.
Two days! two days !-no drop to drink !
Oh! 'tis a fearful thing to think!
It makes one's very tongue to shrink
From speaking of their pain.
Two days,-two days of agony,
They journeyed through the sandy sea,
Seeking a well,-in vain !


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
61
And now they had found it-oh, misery!
Well might they know, by the withered tree,
That only spring was dry.
Their feet, too, raised a rattling sound;
For bones, white bones, lay all around, -
Camels' and riders';—they strewed the ground,
Where soon their own must lie!
One by one their forms dropped down.
Who looked on their features, so parched and
brown,
Might see them fixed in a ghastly frown,
Or a still more ghastly smile.
'Twas terrible to see them die,
With the cold, clear moon from the heavens on
high
Beaming down, with a moveless eye,
Upon them all the while.
a
None questioned, and none made reply;
Too parched their tongues-their lips too dry;
They could but speak by glance of eye;
Yet strange it was to see
How, through their eyes, expression broke,
And each so eloquently spoke,
And told his misery.
G


52
THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
Some looked a curse,—some looked a prayer;
Some apathy, and some despair :
Hard struggling for their breath,
Some moaned in bitter agony;
Some rolled about uneasily ;
Whilst others suffered silently,
And bowed themselves to death.
But there was one among them knelt,
And spread his turban by the well;
He spread it out upon the ground,
To catch the night-dew as it fell.
The dew fell down right copiously,
The linen folds were wet and dank;
E'en now he'd ta'en it in his hands,
E’en now in expectation drank;
When sudden he heard the dying moan
Of one who close beside him lay:
" Thou 'rt nearer death than 1,” he said;
“ I'll save thy life, if yet I may!”
He gave the draught;--the eyes unclosed,
And gazed on him with wond'ring stare ;
Then suddenly the voice broke forth :
“I know thee, now, thou man of prayer!


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
63
“ A holy Christian priest art thou ;-
May endless glory be thy meed!
If Jesus taught such deeds as this,
Then Jesus must be God indeed!”
“ I thank Thee, Lord!" the priest he said,
“Who by my hands so much hast done!
Truly, the draught was cheaply lost,
By which a priceless soul is won!”
9
And then, with few and simple words,
He taught him all he'd need to know;
And o'er his willing, joyful brow,
He caused the saving stream to flow.
'Twas the last drop! He saw it roll
And sink into the thirsty ground.
Then sudden faintness o'er him stole,
And double darkness veiled him round.
He sank beside the new baptized,
Mingling with his his latest breath;
But, oh! what bliss it was to die,
When dying such a holy death!
a
The Angel of Death came smilingly,
With a vision of Heaven to his dying eye,
Unloosed the bonds of the earthly cell,
And called to the spirit to mount, and fly.


64
THE ANGEL OF DEATH,
Heavenward they mounted, side by side,
He and the soul for which he died.
They were gone, all !--all by the desert well!
And, ere the sunbeams on them fell,
The vulture was rioting over his prey:
There was none, there was none who could drive
him away!
VI.
A BABE lay sleeping on its mother's breast,-
Emblem of innocence and trustful love!
Each dimple in its little chubby face
Seemed lighted up with radiance from above.
One small, round hand upon the bed-clothes lay,
Holding a lily in its tiny grasp ;
The other, 'neath the envious covering hid,
Lay twined within its mother's,-clasp in clasp.
The eyes, with silken lashes shadowed o'er,
Seemed half inclined to open as he smiled,
Dreaming the heavenly dreams of infancy,
Which cannot reach a heart by sin defiled.
a


THE ANGEL OF DEATH.
65
”T was the Death-Angel's form that o'er him
bent!
The infant smiled, his heavenly friend to greet,
And stretched his little dimpled arm on high,
As though he wished to soar, that friend to
meet.
The Angel stooped, and, smiling back at him,
Laid that sweet baby-soul upon his breast :
No mortal pang was there,- and in her arms,
Unconsciously, a corpse the mother pressed !
Oh! there was weeping wild, at break of day!
A mother mourning for her baby boy!
He was her pride, her happiness, her all,—
A fair young widow's best and only joy !
But he, in peacefulness of perfect rest,
Upon the blessèd Angel's bosom soared;
Nor thought upon that earth he ne'er had known,
As Heaven's immortal splendour round him
poured,
And Angel hands were stretched to welcome
him,
Laden with flowers that grow beyond the sky;
And all around him floated joyously,
The bursts of glorious music from on high !





THE
VISION OF KING RICHARD.





The Vision of King Bichard.
INSCRIBED TO
MISS A. E. GREY, HOLYHEAD.
1

'
4
HE chamber was bright with silver
light,
The moon through the oriel shone;
But King Richard he lay on his
gorgeous bed,
Sleepless, and woe-begone.
1
Sad and dread were the thoughts which racked
The monarch's weary brain; ;
For he thought of the curse his father spoke,
As he lay in his dying pain.
In vain he looked on the star-lit heaven,
For aye would his fancy trace,
On the starry gleam, on the fair moon beam,
His dying father's face.


70
THE VISION OF KING RICHARD.
a
And e'en if sleep for a moment closed
Its pinions o'er his head,
He'd wake anon, with a shuddering groan,
For his dreams were of the dead.
Long did the night time seem to him,
As wearily he lay,
And turned, and tossed, and turned again,
'Till at last he turned to pray.
a
Just then a light,-so wond'rous bright,
It paled the fair moon beam,-
Filled all the chamber, far and wide,
And round his couch 'gan stream.
a
So sudden it came, that, for a time,
He had not power to see;
And when that power at length was given,
A trembling man was he.
Close by his couch, with look severe,
A mailed warrior stood;
A halo of light was round his helm,
And on his shield the rood.
The warrior spoke. His voice did sound
Sweet as a bird's in spring,
When every nest is filled with
young,
And each to his mate doth sing.


THE VISION OF KING RICHARD.
71
But though 't was sweet, 't was wond'rous sad,
And Richard's heart was woe,
When thus the stranger to him spoke,
In accents soft and low:
My son, I ween 'tis hard to bear
A dying father's curse!
It is a fearful thing to sin,-
But to despair is worse.
“ No sin is there may not by prayer
And penance be forgiven;
For endless aye is Mercy's stream,
That flows to earth from Heaven.
" Then shrive thee of thy grievous sin,
And pardoned thou shalt be;
But, ne'ertheless, a doleful dule
Thy life long thou shalt dree.
“Thou'st vowed to lead thy armies forth
Upon the Syrian plain,
To fight for God, and Holy Church,
Against the Saraceyne.
Well, be it so! And God Himself
Thy valiant arm shall aid !
Cities shall fall, and hosts shall flee
Before thy conquering blade!


72
THE VISION OF KING RICHARD.
“But, when thy victories are won,
This penance thou shalt dree:
Though thou shalt stand on Olivet,
The Tomb thou shalt not see !
And, after that, through many lands
A wanderer thou shalt roam,
Whilst treacherous friends, and open foes,
Shall bar thy journey home.
“Dark are the dungeons of Almaine,
And hard its gyves of steel;
But these, and many woes beside,
Thou yet art doomed to feel.
“And when thy life is at its close,
An ill death thou shalt die.
Ten summers hence,-prepare thee well,
For then thy end is nigh!
“ But then, oh! then, thou'lt learn to
think
E'en life was lightly given,
When thou shalt see the resting-place
Prepared for thee in Heaven!”


THE VISION OF KING RICHARD.
73
“God's will be done !" King Richard
cried;
Then turned away, and wept.
The pitying stranger touched his eyes,
And soon the mourner slept.
“God's will be done !" cried Richard, when
The sun at morning shone;
And rising, with a trembling hand,
His armour he did don.
“It was our patron, good St. George,
Who stood beside my bed.
(I knew him by his glittering helm,
And by his cross of red.)
“O father mine ! thy curse hath fall’n
Right sorely on thy son !
But Thou, O God, art merciful!
O God, Thy will be done !"
Then heralds, riding in hot haste,
Went forth at his command,
To summon to the Holy War
The noblest of the land.
H


74
THE VISION OF KING RICHARD.
And there was furbishing of spears,
And burnishing of shields;
And bow and bill came bristling thick,
As barley in the fields.
And there were shouts of triumph loud,
And eyes that flashed with pride,
As the fleur-de-lys and the lions three
Went floating side by side.
Hurrah! hurrah! for the gallant hearts
That crowded round our king !
A merry chime on Paynim shields
Their conquering swords did ring!
Hurrah ! hurrah! for our gallant king !
A stalwart knight was he!
He fought for God, and for Holy Church,
And he won the victory!
Long will the Paynims' hearts be woe,
When Richard's name they hear;
For fearful was his whirling axe,
And deadly was his spear!
Long shall the Syrian mother say,
To still her infant's cry,
“Hush thee, my babe! Why dost thou fear?
King Richard is not nigh !”


THE VISION OF KING RICHARD.
75
Now God him rest,-our gallant king!
Now God him save, and sain !
So stark a king, so brave a knight,
We ne'er shall see again.
And pray ye, all who hear my lay!
Pray ye our sweet Ladye,
That she may kneel to God in heaven,
And his soul assoiled may be !





THE
LAY OF THE STANDARD.





The Lay of the Standard.
INSCRIBED TO
THE VERY REV. EDW, CANON KENRICK, P.P.,
ST. PATRICK'S, LIVERPOOL.

ING Richard stood within his ladye's
bower:
His glance on many a flower of
beauty fell;
But Berengare, his lovely spouse,
was 'mong them,-
A pearl, encircled in an orient shell.
The golden ringlets, o'er her white neck falling,
Shewed forth her Gothic lineage, proud and high !
Well might ye know the Spanish monarch's
daughter,
By the clear flashing of her azure eye.


80
THE LAY OF THE STANDARD.
Like silver lilies o'er calm waters bending,
Their broad leaves resting on the silent stream,-
While frolic fish, from out the flower-clad river,
Leap up, and sparkle in the sunny beam;
So sate the queen, and broidered with her maidens
The blood-red standard, stretched from knee to
knee;
Their silver needles through the rich web leaping,
Wrought forth in golden threads the lions three.
'Twas done! The gorgeous task at length was
ended,
And by her maids attended, as was meet,
Fair Berengare, upon her knee low bending,
Laid the rich present at her husband's feet.
“Long," cried she, “may this banner, proudly
floating,
Lead on thy knights to glory in the war!
And when the rustling of its folds thou hearest,
Think then, my lord-think of thy Berengare!
“ And I will ask of thee this passing favour,-
Do not refuse it to thy weeping bride !-
Where'er thy duty calls, where'er thou wendest,
Oh! let me never, never quit thy side !"


THE LAY OF THE STANDARD.
81
Low bending, with his strong right arm he raised
her,
And close embracing, pressed her to his heart.
“ Aye! be it so !" he cried, “ thou shalt be with
•
me;
A soldier and his bride should never part!
“For thy dear sake, myself will bear this banner,
A meteor streaming through the ranks of war!
And when I lead my warriors to the onset,
My cry shall be, St. George, and Berengare!'
6
“I hear the trumpet sound !-my battle charger
Impatient 'waits me in the court below!
Boune thee and follow, then, my peerless ladye;
The voice of duty calls, and I must go!"
Oh! Cyprus land was filled with woe and wailing,
As through Limisso's streets that war-cry rose,
And fled the Greeks before that dreaded standard,
Like leaves in autumn, when the north-wind
blows !
The Paynim ship sailed swiftly o'er the waters;
A Dromond, stately as a swan, was she.


82
THE LAY OF THE STANDARD.
A thousand warriors on her deck were standing,
The chosen ones of all Anatolie.
Why tremble they? Why with such frantic
gestures
Urge they the slaves to labour at the oar?
Those are but specks upon the broad blue waters,- –
But tiny barks, I ween, and nothing more!
Yet tremble they,--and they have cause to tremble !
Those tiny barks that follow on the sea
Are filled with warriors bold, -and o'er the fore-
most
Floats fair the standard of the lions three !
A clash of swords on steely shields descending!
War-cry and death-groan mingling fast and loud!
And sank the Dromond in the seething billows,
And each bold Paynim found a watery shroud!
a
Strong were thy walls, and fair thy gates, 0 Acre !
Who queenly sattest by the sunny sea !
Many the warriors who had sworn to perish,
Rather than evil hap should light on thee!
Yet vain thy bulwarks,-vain thy brave defenders ;
For these are broken down, and those are slain :
O'er these King Richard's lion flag is floating,
And those his arm hath stretched upon the
plain!


THE LAY OF THE STANDARD.
83
Ah, woe is me! My heart is sad for Acre,
The pride, the glory of the Syrian shore !
Now ruins gird thee round, thou mourning city,
And joy and triumph fill thy streets no more!
At early morn, upon the banks of Arsur,
Horsemen and footmen stood in long array;
And spears, as thick as reeds, along the river,
Shot back from steely points the morning ray.
A thousand thousand, more than man could
number,
Their turbans hid the plain, like drifted snow.
So thickly waved the standards of the prophet,
You scarce might see old Arsur's stream below.
But ere the sun, behind the Cyprian mountains,
Had bathed his burning temples in the flood,
The plain was void, save where the dead and dying
Tinged the dark river with their good heart's
blood.
That glorious day the lion-flag of England
Was first and foremost in the shock of war;
And loud above the din of battle sounded
King Richard's cry,“St. George, and Berengare!"
Why should I sing the bloody field of Jaffa,
The Christians' triumph, and the Paynims' woe?


84
THE LAY OF THE STANDARD.
Enough, enough! Methinks I hear the war-cries,
The faulchions clashing, and the red stream's flow!
Enough, enough! The vultures knew that banner,
And loved to follow in its track afar;
And the gaunt wolf came bounding from the moun-
tains,
With hungry haste, at Richard's cry of war! !
Long may'st thou wave, O standard of our fathers !
And lead us on to glory as of yore!
Oh, may we find such warriors to bear thee,
As he who 'gainst the Paynims first thee bore !
God guard thee well, O standard of the mighty !
Thou art the banner of the brave and free!
Ne'er shall a slave, a coward, or a tyrant,
Pollute with impious touch the lions three!
a


THE
LAY OF THE GLOVE.
I





The Lay of the Glove.
ANWA
INSCRIBED TO
W. H. BRACE, ESQ., BATH.
HYTTE I.

66
H! God thee guard, Don Lara!
Oh! God thee guard and save!
And
may His Angel warriors
Their bucklers round thee wave !
“And may'st thou soon return again
From warring with the Moor,
With the token in thy helmet
That hath grieved me so sore !
“ For, if thou come not, all in vain
For me the sun will shine;
And, if that crest thou bearest not,
I never can be thine.


88
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
My sire hath sworn a solemn oath,
By good St. Iago's head,
That, if thou bring not back my gage,
I never shall thee wed.
“Foul fall the glove! foul fall the Moor,
Who raised it from the sand,
When, in Burgos, at the pass of arms, ,
I dropped it from my hand!
“He was a gallant warrior,
And he rode a noble steed;
Yet, though he meant it not, I ween,
He did an evil deed.
“Oh! nobly rode he in the lists !
He made Inigo reel;
And Velasquez before him rolled,
Beneath his charger's heel !
“'T was then the people shouted
"
The trumpets' notes above !
'Twas then I waved, -ah! luckless me!
I waved, and lost my glove!
« Oh, had'st thou seen how statelily
He bowed his plumèd head,
With what a grace he picked it up,
E'en thou hadst not gainsaid.


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
89
“He bore it off with a graceful swoop,
As a falcon bears a dove,
And, smiling, fixed it to the plume
That waved his helm above.
“He turned, against another foe
Another course to try;
When, fiercer far than a blazing star,
father's
eye.
I met my
"Oh, ne'er, oh, ne'er can I forget
(Methinks I see it now!)
The fiery flash of his angry eye,
And the frown upon his brow!
“ He led me forth from the tournament,
He bade prepare my steed,
And never a word he to me spoke,
But brought me home with speed.
“ And when we came to the castle gate,
A fearful oath he swore:
She ne'er could be a daughter of his
Who loved the Paynim Moor!'
“ In vain I prayed, in vain I wept,
And clung about his knee,-
He never would me bless again,
Nor smile again on me.


90
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
“Nor would he trust me, when I said,
That Moor I did not love.
• Why, then,' he'd cry, 'in the name of God!
Why didst thou drop thy glove ?'
6
" And now he'th sworn a solemn oath,
By good St. Iago's head,
That, till that glove I win again,
No suitor shall me wed.
“Go! God thee guard, Don Lara,
When thou warrest with the Moor!
Until thou come to me again,
My heart will be full sore.
“Daily, at blessèd Mary's shrine,
I'll pray on bended knee,
That, like a mother, she may watch,
And ward all harm from thee.
“ And a mass at Compostella
For thee daily shall be said,
That God may send His Angel host,
To hover round thy head.
“Go! God thee guard, Don Lara!
Thee aid the saints above!
May'st thou prevail against the Moor,
And win that fatal glove !"


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
91
Thus spoke Elvira Laynez,
From the lattice of her bower;
And thus Don Lara answered,
As he stood beneath the tower:
“God thee guard, Elvira Laynez!
God thee guard, my own true love!
Thy voice is sweeter to mine ears
Than the cooing of the dove.
“ And the balmy words thou speakest
Are an unguent to my heart,
Which was wounded nigh to breaking,
When thy sire me bade depart.
“ Not that I fear the danger,
Nor the prowess of the Moor;
But that I so long must leave thee,
That, indeed, doth grieve me sore.
“Foul fall Almed El Zegri,
For the evil he hath done!
Of a curst, and ill-starred ancestry,
The curst and ill-starred son!
a
“As the Dog-Star in the summer,
With a baleful light doth shine,
So is thy name, El Zegri,
Full of ill to me and mine!


92
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
“Would that my sword were tempered
Like Colada or Tizón;
And my steed were like Rabieca,
Who would bear the Cid alone!
“ Then soon I'd see the foeman
Subdued my might before,
And loud would be the wailing
In the cities of the Moor!
“ But I swear, e'en now, Elvira,
By my father, who is dead,
To bring thee back that fatal glove,
And with't the Paynim's head!
“One thing alone I ask thee,-
Do not my suit deny!
If thou love me, 'tis an easy thing,
If thou say me nay,—I die?
“ Take now thy veil, Elvira,
And, cutting it in twain,
Give me the half, and wear thou half,
Until I come again.
“ Wear thou that half upon thy head,
That half veil, and no more,
And vow to me thou wilt not wed
Till I the rest restore !"


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
93
She spoke not,-no; but quickly
Her 'broidered veil unbound,
And soon the sundered gossamer
Came floating toward the ground.
With joyful hands he caught it,
And fixed it to his casque.
What troth more firmly plighted could
The fondest lover ask ?
Yet still awhile he lingered, -
Wherefore he could not tell.
I ween, he found it wondrous hard
To say the last "Farewell!”
Twice he essayed to speak it,
But still he silence kept ;
At the third time, the tears broke forth,
And silently he wept.
He wept,-and was it echo
Gave answer to his moan?
His heart made answer, “Be content;
Thou dost not weep alone !"
All night Elvira Laynez
Lay weeping on her bed,
And listening, listening eagerly
For his steed's fast fading tread;


94
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
'Till to her ear each rustling
Of the wind among the trees,
Seemed the clashing of his armour,
Borne along upon the breeze.
Oh, weep not so, Elvira !
Nor toss upon thy bed!
Whole hosts of blessèd spirits watch
Around thy lover's head, --
And soon the time is coming
Will him to thine eyes restore,
All laden with the spoils of war,
And trophies of the Moor!
FYTTE II.
Oh, woe is me! Granada!
Thy glory waneth dim,
Like a golden sunset lingering
At th' horizon's utmost rim.
“Once, like a queen, thou sattest,-
Fair bulwarks girt thee round;
And the proud Alhambra graced thy head,
With domes and turrets crowned.


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
95
« Ten times ten thousand warriors
From out thy gates could pour ;-
Truly, thou wast the pearl among
The cities of the Moor!
“Still art thou girt with bulwarks,
And with the Alhambra crowned;
But, woe is me! Granada!
Thy foes the first surround !
“ Their hands are on thy girdle,
And the buckles of the gate
Must soon give way; for vain it is
To stem the tide of fate!
" And the crown of the Alhambra,
So fair and stately now,
Soon, soon, I fear, the victor's hand
Will tear it from thy brow!
" Once there was sound of music,
And mirth in every street,
And the graceful alma made thy courts
Ring to her winged feet.
“ But now the bells, that tinkled
In the alma's graceful dance,
Have given place to clash of swords,
And shiverings of the lance;


96
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
“And the music of the guzla
Is drowned amid the din
Of battering-ram, and mangonel,
Bombard, and culverin.
“ And, woe is me, El Zegri!
Thy happiness is flown!
The image of that Christian maid
Now fills thy heart alone;
“ And her favour on thy helmet,-
That prized but fatal glove,
To thee's a talisman of death,
Or a talisman of love!
“Ah! lovely as Heaven's houris
Are the maidens of the Moor!
If I were free, their praise I'd sing-
Their beauty I'd adore;-
" But the Christian maid of Burgos
Is lovelier far than they,
And her form is shrined within my heart,
To lord it there for aye!
“ Full well do I remember
The joy-flash in her eye,
When, in the flush of victory,
Like a dart, I passed her by.


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
97
“ Oh! how she cheered me onward,
With that glance of joy, and love !
Oh! how my heart within me leapt,
When I saw her drop her glove !
“Sometimes, dark thoughts have risen:
Mayhap I am forgot ;-
Mayhap she meant it not for
me,
And knows me, loves me not !
“No, no, my heart! hope ever!
Eyes of such lust'rous ray
Could never, never smile on thee,
And smile but to betray!
a
“ Ofttimes a beam of sunshine
Upon a dungeon wall,
Like a stream of heavenly comfort, on
A captive's heart, doth fall.
“ It gilds his heavy fetters,
And, to cheer the weary hours,
Brings to his heart a pleasant dream,
Of the green trees, and the flowers.
“ 'Tis hope amidst his loneliness,
And bringeth him good cheer,
E'en though,--so envious is the grate, -
It come but once a-year.
K


98
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE,
" Then hope, stout heart! hope ever!
Though fearful is the strife;
And the cheering ray from her bright eyes
Hath come but once in life!
“Ho! there, my slaves! What tidings?
Why doth the tambour beat?
Why ride the heralds in hot haste
Along the north-gate street ?"
“ The tambour beats a parley
For a gallant Christian knight;
And the heralds seek some champion brave
To meet him in the fight.
“Hark! hark! the trumpet soundeth,
E'en now before thy door!
They call for thee, Ahmed the brave,
The bulwark of the Moor!"
“ Haste ! barb my battle charger!”
He shouted from the roof.
“Bring hither scymetar and shield,
And lance, and arms of proof!"
0
He heard,-he spoke,-he mounted,
He flew along the street,
His eager soul went on before,
Intent the foe to meet !
.


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
99
All heedlessly, Granada!
He passed thy ramparts then;
Nor thought that but his breathless clay
Should
pass those gates again!
a
Forth went he from the city,
Like a bullet from a sling;
But the Christian waited like a pard,
That crouches for the spring.
The Moors were on the ramparts,
The Christians on the plain;
But every eye in either host
Was fixed upon them twain.
And many a pulse beat quicker,
As the warriors nearer drew,
And many prayers from many hearts,
For either, Heavenward flew.
Right nobly rode El Zegri,
A charger brave had he,
And his steely arms, with ruddy gold,
They sparkled gloriously.
Like a fleece-cloud of the mountains
Waved his plume at every bound,
And the flashing of his buckler threw
A lightning radiance round,


100
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
Than he, no nobler champion
E'er rode by Darro's shore,-
Ahmed the Brave, Granada's pride,
The bulwark of the Moor!
They thought, who saw El Zegri,
None better they might see;
But the Christian knight who waited there, -
What manner of man was he?
He was a youthful warrior,-
Scarce twenty summers old,-
Of stature small, and light of limb,
But his air was free and bold;
And the lightning flash that darted
From his dark and piercing eye,
Gave promise fair of spirit firm,
And courage stern and high.
White were his arms and buckler,
No blazonry was there, -
And his only crest-a'broidered veil-
That fluttered in the air.
He was a noble warrior,
And a noble steed him bore;
But feeble, feeble did he seem
Before that iron Moor.


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
101
E'en Ahmed, when he saw him,
Felt pity in his breast,
And thus, with half contemptuous words,
The Christian he addressed :
“ Who, and what art thou, Christian !
That thus thou darest me ?
Thou art a rash and beardless boy,
And my heart doth pity thee;
a
“ Else, without further parley,
My sword had laid thee low,
And hewn thee piecemeal on the plain,
To feed the carrion crow !
“Go to! Thou should'st be sitting
At thy mother's side, by right!
Shame on the savages, who send
Such children forth to fight !"
He spoke. The red blood mounted
To Lara's noble brow;
But few and bitter words he said,
For his heart was sore, I trow.
“ Thou scornest me, proud Paypim !
But I swear by Heaven above,
Either to die, or from thy crest
To tear that 'broidered glove!


102
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
“ Have at thee!-If thou think me
Unworthy of thy hand,
Know, I am of Manrique's race-
The noblest of the land !"
No more. They spurred their coursers,
And closed in deadly fray.
(Each, trusting to his good brown blade,
Had flung his lance away.)
Brave music was the clashing
Of scymetar and sword; ;
Loudly their good shields rattled, as
The steel-storm on them poured;
1
>
And, like the storm-raised columns
On Afric's wastes of sand,
Arose the dust, as reared each steed
Beneath his master's hand!
Ha! Lara's hope hath fallen,
His trusty sword hath broke !
God guard thee, Christian warrior!
That was a fearful stroke!
El Zegri's eye flashed triumph,
And flushed his swarthy cheek-
Fool! Why suspend the deadly stroke ?
Why didst thou stop to speak ?


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
103
“Now die!” he cried, “Don Lara !
Where is thy boasting now?"
Don Lara seized the trusty mace,
Hung at the saddle bow,
And struck the Paynim's helmet.
He staggered in his selle,
The scymetar his hand forsook,
And prone to earth he fell!
Thund'ring, he fell! Don Lara
Leapt earthward with fierce glee,
And on the fallen foeman's breast
Planted his armed knee.
While one hand held the dagger
The warrior's heart above,
The other, with an eager clutch,
Secured the fatal glove!
He rose, and sheathed his dagger,
All bloodless was the blade ;-
Don Lara's hand for bravo's deed,
I ween, was never made.
No: he unlaced the helmet,
And cut the gorget brace,
And from the Darro water brought,
To bathe his foeman's face.


104
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
Too late! But still El Zegri
Looked gratefully on him,
And blessed him with his dying eyes,
Though they were glazed and dim,
And said, “God bless thee, Lara !
To me that fatal glove
Hath been a talisman of death,-
To thee be't one of love!
“O Christian maid of Burgos !".
He could not utter more;
And still in death his noble form
Lay on the Darro's shore !
FYTTE III.
One morn, Elvira Laynez
Lay tossing on her bed;
The downy pillows all too hard
Were for her aching head.
Her lovely cheeks were burning,
And flushed with feverish pain,
And she kept murmuring to herself,
“ He ne'er will come again!”


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
105
The watchman on the turret,
Who watched both day and night,
Cried out, “ Ho! cheer thee, ladye fair!
A horseman is in sight!
“ His steed is black as midnight,-
His arms of silver pale,
And from his helm, upon the breeze,
There floats a 'broidered veil !"
.
Up rose Elvira Laynez,-
All thought of pain was gone :
“Come hither,” she said, “my maidens !
Help me my robes to don!"
She hath mounted to the turret,
Unto the warder's side,
And he hath pointed out the knight
That hitherward doth ride.
She sees the fair veil fluttering,
Like to a lime-snared dove,-
But, oh! what joy! upon his helm
He bears the fatal glove!


106
THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
Loud pealed the bells of Burgos,
And loud the joy-shout rang !
And everywhere along the streets
The happy people sang:
“God bless and guard Don Lara !
God guard him evermore !
Manrique's pride, the boast of Spain,
The terror of the Moor!
“God bless Elvira Laynez,
As she sits her lord beside!
Who would not risk his best heart's blood,
To win so fair a bride ?"
There was a tomb in Burgos,
All wrought in sculptured pride ;-
In it the noble Lara lay,
With his lady by his side,
And men long viewed the trophy
Which hung that tomb above,-
A riven veil, an iron mace,
A sabre, and a glove,


THE LAY OF THE GLOVE.
107
And told it to their children,
How, in the olden day,
Don Lara went to the Moor's countree,
And brought that glove away!
L. D. S.

FINIS
PAINTED BY J LAMPARD, COLLEGIATE PRESS, PRIOR PARK, BATH.


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