The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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SIR RALPH DE BLANC-MINSTER, OF BIEN-AIME. |
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
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SIR RALPH DE BLANC-MINSTER, OF BIEN-AIME.
The Vow.
Hush! 'tis a tale of the elder time,
Caught from an old barbaric rhyme—
How the fierce Sir Ralph, of the haughty hand,
Harnessed him for our Saviour's land.
Caught from an old barbaric rhyme—
How the fierce Sir Ralph, of the haughty hand,
Harnessed him for our Saviour's land.
“Time trieth troth”—thus the lady said—
“And a warrior must rest in Bertha's bed.
Three years let the severing seas divide,
And strike thou for Christ and thy trusting bride.”
“And a warrior must rest in Bertha's bed.
Three years let the severing seas divide,
And strike thou for Christ and thy trusting bride.”
So he buckled on the beamy blade,
That Gaspar of Spanish Leon made;
Whose hilted cross is the awful sign,
It must burn for the Lord and His tarnished shrine.
That Gaspar of Spanish Leon made;
Whose hilted cross is the awful sign,
It must burn for the Lord and His tarnished shrine.
The Adieu.
“Now a long farewell! tall Stratton Tower,
Dark Bude! thy fatal sea;
And God thee speed in hall and bower,
My manor of Bien-aimé.
Dark Bude! thy fatal sea;
And God thee speed in hall and bower,
My manor of Bien-aimé.
“Thou, too, farewell, my chosen bride,
Thou Rose of Rou-tor land;
Though all on earth were false beside,
I trust thy plighted hand.
Thou Rose of Rou-tor land;
Though all on earth were false beside,
I trust thy plighted hand.
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“Dark seas may swell, and tempests lower,
And surging billows foam:
The cresset of thy bridal bower
Shall guide the wanderer home,
And surging billows foam:
The cresset of thy bridal bower
Shall guide the wanderer home,
“Oh! for the Cross in Jesu's land,
When Syrian armies flee:
One thought shall thrill my lifted hand—
I strike for God and thee.”
When Syrian armies flee:
One thought shall thrill my lifted hand—
I strike for God and thee.”
The Battle.
Hark! how the brattling trumpets blare!
Lo! the red banners flaunt the air!
And see! his good sword girded on,
The stern Sir Ralph to the wars is gone!
Lo! the red banners flaunt the air!
And see! his good sword girded on,
The stern Sir Ralph to the wars is gone!
Hurrah! for the Syrian dastards flee!
Charge! charge! ye Western chivalry!
Sweet is the strife for God's renown—
The Cross is up, and the Crescent down!
Charge! charge! ye Western chivalry!
Sweet is the strife for God's renown—
The Cross is up, and the Crescent down!
The weary warrior seeks his tent,
For the good Sir Ralph is pale and spent;
Five wounds he reap'd in the field of fame—
Five, in his blessèd Master's name.
For the good Sir Ralph is pale and spent;
Five wounds he reap'd in the field of fame—
Five, in his blessèd Master's name.
The solemn Leech looks sad and grim,
As he binds and soothes each gory limb;
And the solemn Priest must chant and pray,
Lest the soul unhouseled pass away.
As he binds and soothes each gory limb;
And the solemn Priest must chant and pray,
Lest the soul unhouseled pass away.
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The Treachery.
A sound of horsehoofs on the sand:
And lo! a page from Cornish land.
“Tidings,” he said, as he bent the knee,
“Tidings, my lord, from Bien-aimé.”
And lo! a page from Cornish land.
“Tidings,” he said, as he bent the knee,
“Tidings, my lord, from Bien-aimé.”
“The owl shrieked thrice from the warder's tower;
The crown-rose withered in her bower;
The good grey foal, at evening fed,
Lay in the sunrise stark and dead.”
The crown-rose withered in her bower;
The good grey foal, at evening fed,
Lay in the sunrise stark and dead.”
“Dark omens three!” the sick man cried;
“Say on the woe thy looks betide.”
“Master! at bold Sir Rupert's call,
Thy Lady Bertha fled the Hall.”
“Say on the woe thy looks betide.”
“Master! at bold Sir Rupert's call,
Thy Lady Bertha fled the Hall.”
The Scroll.
“Bring me,” he said, “that scribe of fame,
Symeon el Siddekah his name:
With parchment skin, and pen in hand,
I would devise my Cornish land.
Symeon el Siddekah his name:
With parchment skin, and pen in hand,
I would devise my Cornish land.
“Seven goodly manors, fair and wide,
Stretch from the sea to Tamar side;
And Bien-aimé, my hall and bower,
Nestles beneath tall Stratton Tower.
Stretch from the sea to Tamar side;
And Bien-aimé, my hall and bower,
Nestles beneath tall Stratton Tower.
“All these I render to my God,
By seal and signet, knife and sod:
I give and grant to Church and poor,
In franc-almoign, for evermore.
By seal and signet, knife and sod:
I give and grant to Church and poor,
In franc-almoign, for evermore.
201
“Choose ye seven men among the just,
And bid them hold my lands in trust;
On Michael's morn, and Mary's day,
To deal the dole, and watch and pray.
And bid them hold my lands in trust;
On Michael's morn, and Mary's day,
To deal the dole, and watch and pray.
“Then bear me coldly o'er the deep,
'Mid my own people I would sleep:
Their hearts shall melt, their prayers will breathe,
Where he who loved them rests beneath.
'Mid my own people I would sleep:
Their hearts shall melt, their prayers will breathe,
Where he who loved them rests beneath.
“Mould me in stone as here I lie,
My face upturned to Syria's sky;
Carve ye this good sword at my side,
And write the legend, ‘True and Tried.’
My face upturned to Syria's sky;
Carve ye this good sword at my side,
And write the legend, ‘True and Tried.’
“Let mass be said, and requiem sung,
And that sweet chime I loved be rung;
Those sounds along the northern wall
Shall thrill me like a trumpet-call.”
And that sweet chime I loved be rung;
Those sounds along the northern wall
Shall thrill me like a trumpet-call.”
Thus said he—and at set of sun
The bold Crusader's race was run.—
Seek ye his ruined hall and bower?
Then stand beneath tall Stratton Tower.
The bold Crusader's race was run.—
Seek ye his ruined hall and bower?
Then stand beneath tall Stratton Tower.
The Mort-Main.
Now the Demon had watched for the warrior's soul,
'Mid the din of war where blood-streams roll;
He had waited long on the dabbled sand,
Ere the Priest had cleansed the gory hand.
'Mid the din of war where blood-streams roll;
He had waited long on the dabbled sand,
Ere the Priest had cleansed the gory hand.
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Then, as he heard the stately dole
Wherewith Sir Ralph had soothed his soul,
The unclean spirit turned away
With a baffled glare of grim dismay.
Wherewith Sir Ralph had soothed his soul,
The unclean spirit turned away
With a baffled glare of grim dismay.
But when he caught those words of trust—
That sevenfold choice among the just,
“Ho! ho!” cried the fiend, with a mock at Heaven,
“I have lost but one: I shall win my seven.”
That sevenfold choice among the just,
“Ho! ho!” cried the fiend, with a mock at Heaven,
“I have lost but one: I shall win my seven.”
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