 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
ROBERT BRUCE'S HEART;
OR, THE LAST OF THE CRUSADERS.
‘This tediousness in death is irksome, lords,
To standers-by: I pray you to be seated:’
Thus spake King Robert dying in his chair.
His nobles and his knights around him stood
Silent, with brows bent forward, He continued:
‘Because ye hath been loyal, knights and peers,
I bade you hither, first to say farewell;
Next, to commend to you a loyalty
Not less but greater, to your country due,
For I to her was loyal from the first.
She lies sore shaken; guard her as a mother
Her cradled babe, a man in strength his sire.
Guard her from foreign foes, from traitors near,
Yea from herself if evil dreams assail her.
Sustain her faith; in virtue bid her walk
Before her God, a nation clad with light.’
He spake; then sat with closed lids quivering oft;
At last they opened; rested full on one
The sole who knelt: large tears—he knew it not—
Rolled down his face: 'twas Douglas. Thus the King:
‘That hour we spake of oft, yet never feared
O best and bravest of my friends, is come.
James, we were friends since boyhood; side by side
We stood that hour when I was crowned at Scone,—
Crowned by a woman's hand when kinsmen none
Of hers approached me. Many a time we two
Flung back King Edward's powers. Betrayed, deserted,
By bloodhounds tracked we roamed the midnight moors:
I saw thy blood-drops stain Loch Etive's rocks;
Thy knees sustained my head when, faint with wounds,
Three days on Rachrin's island-shores I lay.
One night—rememberest thou that night?—I cried—
Randolph, I think, stood near us,—thus I cried:
“Give o'er the conflict! Bootless is this war:
Would God we battled in the Holy Land
For freeing of Christ's Tomb!” Then answer'dst thou:
“Best of Crusaders is that King who fights
To free his country slaved!”’ Douglas replied,
‘I said it, sire; God said it too, and crowned you.
God, if He wills, can make you yet Crusader;
In death Crusader—yea, or after death.’
To standers-by: I pray you to be seated:’
Thus spake King Robert dying in his chair.
His nobles and his knights around him stood
Silent, with brows bent forward, He continued:
‘Because ye hath been loyal, knights and peers,
I bade you hither, first to say farewell;
Next, to commend to you a loyalty
Not less but greater, to your country due,
For I to her was loyal from the first.
She lies sore shaken; guard her as a mother
Her cradled babe, a man in strength his sire.
Guard her from foreign foes, from traitors near,
Yea from herself if evil dreams assail her.
Sustain her faith; in virtue bid her walk
Before her God, a nation clad with light.’
He spake; then sat with closed lids quivering oft;
At last they opened; rested full on one
The sole who knelt: large tears—he knew it not—
Rolled down his face: 'twas Douglas. Thus the King:
‘That hour we spake of oft, yet never feared
328
James, we were friends since boyhood; side by side
We stood that hour when I was crowned at Scone,—
Crowned by a woman's hand when kinsmen none
Of hers approached me. Many a time we two
Flung back King Edward's powers. Betrayed, deserted,
By bloodhounds tracked we roamed the midnight moors:
I saw thy blood-drops stain Loch Etive's rocks;
Thy knees sustained my head when, faint with wounds,
Three days on Rachrin's island-shores I lay.
One night—rememberest thou that night?—I cried—
Randolph, I think, stood near us,—thus I cried:
“Give o'er the conflict! Bootless is this war:
Would God we battled in the Holy Land
For freeing of Christ's Tomb!” Then answer'dst thou:
“Best of Crusaders is that King who fights
To free his country slaved!”’ Douglas replied,
‘I said it, sire; God said it too, and crowned you.
God, if He wills, can make you yet Crusader;
In death Crusader—yea, or after death.’
The King sighed slightly, and his eyelids sank;
Again he spake, though now with wandering mind:
‘Randolph was there. Rightly thou savedst his honour,
Though breaking thus the mandate of thy King.
He bade thee help him; but thine eye saw well
He needed help no more. He won without thee.’
Again the dying King, with voice grown weaker,
‘Ah me! All earthly honour is but jest.’
Later his eyes unclosed; and with strong voice
And hand half raised as if it grasped a sceptre
He spake: ‘My youthful dream is unfulfilled—
That sin I sinned, when Comyn died, forbade it:
No less one tribute I would pay to God;
Leave man one fair ensample.
Yon case of silver is a reliquary—
Seal thou therein my heart when dead I lie:
In the Holy Land inter it.’
Again he spake, though now with wandering mind:
‘Randolph was there. Rightly thou savedst his honour,
Though breaking thus the mandate of thy King.
He bade thee help him; but thine eye saw well
He needed help no more. He won without thee.’
Again the dying King, with voice grown weaker,
‘Ah me! All earthly honour is but jest.’
Later his eyes unclosed; and with strong voice
And hand half raised as if it grasped a sceptre
He spake: ‘My youthful dream is unfulfilled—
329
No less one tribute I would pay to God;
Leave man one fair ensample.
Yon case of silver is a reliquary—
Seal thou therein my heart when dead I lie:
In the Holy Land inter it.’
Three weeks passed,
Five ships were freighted, and the Douglas sailed,
Bearing that reliquary on his breast
Both day and night. He fared not forth alone,
For lords as many companied him as sailed
With good Sir Patrick Spens, what time he bore
Scotland's fair daughter, ‘Maid of Norway’ named,
To be the North-King's bride. Those lords of old
Saw never more their native land. They died,—
Died at the feet of that sea-warrior grey
When, tempest-wrecked on their return, their bark
Went down 'mid roaring waves. Tempest as fierce
On the head of Douglas broke. A Spanish port
With inland-winding bosom bright and still
Received him; and Alphonso of Castile
Welcomed, well pleased, with tournament and feast
A guest in all lands famed.
Five ships were freighted, and the Douglas sailed,
Bearing that reliquary on his breast
Both day and night. He fared not forth alone,
For lords as many companied him as sailed
With good Sir Patrick Spens, what time he bore
Scotland's fair daughter, ‘Maid of Norway’ named,
To be the North-King's bride. Those lords of old
Saw never more their native land. They died,—
Died at the feet of that sea-warrior grey
When, tempest-wrecked on their return, their bark
Went down 'mid roaring waves. Tempest as fierce
On the head of Douglas broke. A Spanish port
With inland-winding bosom bright and still
Received him; and Alphonso of Castile
Welcomed, well pleased, with tournament and feast
A guest in all lands famed.
The parting day
Had almost come; disastrous news foreran it.
Granada's Sultan with his Saracen host
Had broken bound, and written on his march
His Prophet's name in fire. Alphonso craved
Aid of his guest. In sadness Douglas mused;
At last he spake: ‘Sir King, unblest is he
That knight whom warring duties rend asunder:
My King commanded me to Palestine!
For thirty days that word was in mine ears
'Neath all our festal songs. A deeper voice
Assails me now, mounting from that great Heart
Shrined on this breast. Thus speaks it: “That command
I gave thee knowest thou not I countermand—
I who from righteous battle ne'er turned back?”’
The Douglas drooped his head; a trumpet-peal
Shrilled from afar. He raised that head; he spake:
‘Alphonso of Castile, my choice is made;
With thee I march!’ The Scottish knights drew swords;
Shouted ‘Saint Andrew!’ and the knights of Spain
Made answer, ‘Santiago!’
Had almost come; disastrous news foreran it.
Granada's Sultan with his Saracen host
Had broken bound, and written on his march
His Prophet's name in fire. Alphonso craved
Aid of his guest. In sadness Douglas mused;
At last he spake: ‘Sir King, unblest is he
That knight whom warring duties rend asunder:
My King commanded me to Palestine!
For thirty days that word was in mine ears
'Neath all our festal songs. A deeper voice
330
Shrined on this breast. Thus speaks it: “That command
I gave thee knowest thou not I countermand—
I who from righteous battle ne'er turned back?”’
The Douglas drooped his head; a trumpet-peal
Shrilled from afar. He raised that head; he spake:
‘Alphonso of Castile, my choice is made;
With thee I march!’ The Scottish knights drew swords;
Shouted ‘Saint Andrew!’ and the knights of Spain
Made answer, ‘Santiago!’
Long or e'er
Rose the next sun, and while the morning star
Saw still its own face glassed in eastern seas,
Its radiance saw flashed from the floods that, swollen
By melting snows, thundered through dark ravines,—
The hosts united marched. They met their foe
On a wide plain with white sierras girt;
The Moors were to the Christians three to one.
For hours that battle-storm was heard afar;
Numbers at last prevailed; and on the left
The standard of the Cross some whit lost ground:
Douglas restored the battle. On the right
His Scottish knights and he drove all before them.
The Moors gave way; fleet were their Arab steeds
And better than their foes they knew the ground.
Far off they formed anew; they waved again
Their moonèd flags, and crescent scimitars
Well used to reap the harvest-fields of death:
Once more they shouted ‘Allah!’ Spent and breathless,
The northern knights drew bridle on a slope
A stone's-throw distant. Douglas shouted, ‘Forward!’
None answered. Sadly—not in wrath—he spake:
‘O friends, how oft on stormy war-fields proved!
This day what lack ye? Nought save an example!’
Forward he spurred; he reached the Saracen van;
He raised on high that silver shrine; he cried,
‘Go first, great Heart, as thou wert wont to go;
Douglas will follow thee and die.’ He flung it:
Next moment he was in among the Moors.
The Scots knights heard that word; they saw; they charged.
Direful the conflict; from a hill Alphonso
Watched it, but, pressed himself, could spare no aids:
He sent them when too late.
Rose the next sun, and while the morning star
Saw still its own face glassed in eastern seas,
Its radiance saw flashed from the floods that, swollen
By melting snows, thundered through dark ravines,—
The hosts united marched. They met their foe
On a wide plain with white sierras girt;
The Moors were to the Christians three to one.
For hours that battle-storm was heard afar;
Numbers at last prevailed; and on the left
The standard of the Cross some whit lost ground:
Douglas restored the battle. On the right
His Scottish knights and he drove all before them.
The Moors gave way; fleet were their Arab steeds
And better than their foes they knew the ground.
Far off they formed anew; they waved again
Their moonèd flags, and crescent scimitars
Well used to reap the harvest-fields of death:
Once more they shouted ‘Allah!’ Spent and breathless,
The northern knights drew bridle on a slope
331
None answered. Sadly—not in wrath—he spake:
‘O friends, how oft on stormy war-fields proved!
This day what lack ye? Nought save an example!’
Forward he spurred; he reached the Saracen van;
He raised on high that silver shrine; he cried,
‘Go first, great Heart, as thou wert wont to go;
Douglas will follow thee and die.’ He flung it:
Next moment he was in among the Moors.
The Scots knights heard that word; they saw; they charged.
Direful the conflict; from a hill Alphonso
Watched it, but, pressed himself, could spare no aids:
He sent them when too late.
The setting sun
Glared fiercely at that fugitive Moorish host;
Shone sadly on that remnant, wounded sore,
Which gazed in circle on that Great One dead.
His hands, far-stretched, still grappled at the grass:
His bosom on that silver shrine was pressed:
His last hope this—to save it.
Glared fiercely at that fugitive Moorish host;
Shone sadly on that remnant, wounded sore,
Which gazed in circle on that Great One dead.
His hands, far-stretched, still grappled at the grass:
His bosom on that silver shrine was pressed:
His last hope this—to save it.
They returned,
That wounded remnant, to their country's shores:
Once more they bore the Bruce's Heart; yet none
Sustained it on his breast. In season due
The greatest and the best of Scotland's realm
Old lords high-towered on river-banks tree-girt,
Old Gaelic chiefs that ruled in patriarch state
The blue glens of that never-vanquished land,
Grave shepherd-prelates, guiding with mild awe
Those flocks Iona's sons had given to Christ,—
In sad procession moved with sacred rites
From arch to arch of Melrose' holy pile
Following King Robert's Heart before them borne
Beneath a cope of gold, and there interred it
Nigh the high altar. Peasants pressed around
Countless that hour. Some whispered, ‘Meet it was
Here, in this place, to inter our Robert's Heart;
For though he never fought in Holy Land—
He might not since for our sake God forbade it—
That heart was a Crusader's.’ James of Douglas,
In later ages named ‘the Good Earl James,’
Was buried in the chancel of Saint Bride's
Near his ancestral castle. Since that day
The Douglas shield has borne a Bleeding Heart
Crowned with a kingly crown.
That wounded remnant, to their country's shores:
Once more they bore the Bruce's Heart; yet none
Sustained it on his breast. In season due
The greatest and the best of Scotland's realm
Old lords high-towered on river-banks tree-girt,
Old Gaelic chiefs that ruled in patriarch state
The blue glens of that never-vanquished land,
Grave shepherd-prelates, guiding with mild awe
Those flocks Iona's sons had given to Christ,—
In sad procession moved with sacred rites
From arch to arch of Melrose' holy pile
332
Beneath a cope of gold, and there interred it
Nigh the high altar. Peasants pressed around
Countless that hour. Some whispered, ‘Meet it was
Here, in this place, to inter our Robert's Heart;
For though he never fought in Holy Land—
He might not since for our sake God forbade it—
That heart was a Crusader's.’ James of Douglas,
In later ages named ‘the Good Earl James,’
Was buried in the chancel of Saint Bride's
Near his ancestral castle. Since that day
The Douglas shield has borne a Bleeding Heart
Crowned with a kingly crown.
There are who say
That on the battle-morn, but ere the bird
Of morn had flung far off that clarion peal
Which chides proud boastings and denial base,
King Robert stood beside the Douglas' bed
With face all glorious, like some face that saith
‘True friends on earth divided meet in heaven.’
That on the battle-morn, but ere the bird
Of morn had flung far off that clarion peal
Which chides proud boastings and denial base,
King Robert stood beside the Douglas' bed
With face all glorious, like some face that saith
‘True friends on earth divided meet in heaven.’
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |