The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sir Gilbert was a brave and gentle knight,—
Gilbert the Saxon, of old London town;
And to the struggle of the first Crusade
He lent his prowess,—joyful to behold
The snowy standard of the Christian Powers
First float o'er ancient Salem; glad to see
The haughty Crescent quail before the Cross,
And pale its specious beams. But, sad mischance!
One luckless day, in foray or in fight,
He fell into the foeman's toils, and soon
Was hurried o'er the desert far away,
To where Damascus, with her hundred streams,
And bowery gardens, smiles upon the waste.
Here he was captive, manacled and watched;
But he was calm as brave, and he restrained,
In proof of patience, look, and word, and thought.

At length his mild demeanour won its way
With those who watched him, and his chains were loosed;
And he, the same when free as bound, was put
To easy toils within the garden grounds.
This lasted for a time, a year or more,
When in the presence of the Syrian Chief
One day they led him, silent and amazed.
The chief sat gravely on the low divan,

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And by his side a still and graceful form,
Close veiled, and jewelled like an Eastern bride.
The Chieftain gazed upon the noble Knight,
And yet he opened not his lips; meanwhile
Gilbert surveyed, with keen and hurried glance,
The rich, cool luxury of that inner place,
Wherein a fountain, dancing in the midst,
Fell down like shattered silver, with a sound
Like tinkling of a lute, making the air—
Pervaded, too, with daintiest perfumes—
Delicious to the sense. The Chieftain spake;—
“Christian, I have beheld thy noble mien,
Thy patience and reserve; thy valour, too,
I know from loud report; and I would fain
Do thee some favour. Couldst thou not forego
Thy country and religion, and embrace
The only Faith—our own? Consent to this
And honour waits thee: I will then bestow,
To be thy handmaid, this my only child,
And place thee 'mong the illustrious of the East.
Pause for a moment, so that thy reply
Accord with the indulgence I have shown.”

The Saxon raised his bold and ample front
Erect, while in his full and candid eye
Shone the clear beams of truth, and thus replied:—
“Chieftain, there needs no pause; can I renounce
The Faith for which my veins have often bled,—
The Faith whose holiness I learned to know
From my own mother's lips, and later still,
From that great Oracle Divine whose source
Is only God? 'Twere what thou wouldst not do,
Then how shall I? I can not—will not change,
Even if thraldom waste my life away.”

The fair veiled Being at her father's side

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Moved with a restless gesture, as the Chief
Waved with a frown the Captive from his sight.
Gilbert withdrew, but still remained unchained,
To his old labour in the garden grounds:
Then thronging visions of his native land,
Her greenness and her beauty, made him pine
And pant for freedom, which seemed more remote
From his attainment than before.

Some months
Flew o'er his weary head, but with such wings
As seemed to make no speed, when one bright day
A slave, with gesture but with silent tongue,
Led him away into a little bower,
A very nest of beauty and delight,
And there he stood, with wonder and mistrust,
Before the Emeer's Daughter, who reclined
Luxuriantly along her cushioned couch,
Wove in the richest looms. But she was veiled,
And hid the loveliness he longed to see;
Save that a scarlet-slippered foot,
Which just betrayed the golden anklet there,
Peeped on his gaze. “Christian,” she softly said—
And at the murmur of that plaintive voice
He who had borne the deafening bruit of war
Shook like a reed—“Christian, wilt thou relate
Some of the wonders of thy native land,
And of that Faith which makes thee bold amid
Captivity and danger? I would hear.
My Sire is fighting 'gainst thy people, but
With me thou art in safety. Tell thy tale.”

Gilbert all reverently bowed
Before the princely Beauty, and began:
With warm and rapid eloquence—inspired
By his own feelings, and the pitying tone

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Of his exalted Auditor—he drew
A glowing picture, redolent of truth:
Of his own land he told of the renown
In War and Commerce;—of its temperate air,
Its verdurous hills and fields, and constant streams;—
That there no sun o'erpowered, no desert scorched,
But all was mild and genial, as became
The sea-girt Monarch Island of the world.
Of his own Faith he gave the full account,
From its first sunrise: how the Nazarene,
The Man-God, Teacher, Saviour of mankind,
Was Virgin-born within her own bright clime;—
That there He taught, wept, agonised, and died,
And consummated what His love began.
And furthermore, he told her that good men,
Despite contumèly, scorn, hunger, death,
Threatening on every side, had gone abroad
To spread the light and warmth of Gospel Truth:
And not in vain, for that the Christian world
Was numerous as the leaves on Lebanon.

Much more he told her, which the Syrian Maid
Devoured with greedy ear; and when his tongue
At length grew silent, she exclaimed—“Thy tale,
O Christian! moves me! wonderful it is,
By Allah, wonderful! Come sit thee here,
And thou shalt talk again.” And then she smote
Her hands, and slaves obsequious came in
With many-coloured fruits, and cooling drinks,
And cakes of dainty taste; and they partook
Of the light banquet. But ere they began
The Maid unveiled, and to the Saxon's sight
Disclosed a glorious vision, such as ne'er
Haunted the Anchorite in secret cell,
Or the drugged Dreamer in his happiest hour.

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It was a perfect countenance, as fair
As that of Rachael in the days of old,
Or Ruth's, when blushing 'mid the “alien corn,”
But haughtier, perchance, than either,—proof
Of princely blood. Her eyes were deeply dark,
But tender, too, and full of fire, that shot
Into the gazer's soul the shafts of love.
Gilbert was overpowered, and captive now
In other bonds, which he might never break.

And thus they sat and talked, or mutely looked
Into each other's face most tenderly.
The roses seemed to listen,—bubbling fount
To echo all they uttered; whilst pet doves
Of glorious plumage flitted to and fro,
And filled the bower with sounds of happy life.

“Christian,” Zoana said—for such her name—
“If thou canst love a stranger to thy land,
I will be Christian too. If thou canst love,
Give me some token that shall bind our souls,—
Some token that may cheer me in the hour
When, haply, freedom takes thee from my sight,
And with thee all my joy.” With glowing pride
The Saxon hung about her graceful neck
A jewelled Crucifix, and with a kiss
They sealed the holy compact. “Tell me now
Thy country's name and thine, that I may know
Their sounds, and so repeat them as a spell
To charm me when alone, and link my soul
In memory to thee.” “My country's name
Is England; London the transcendent town
Where I was born; and I am Gilbert named.”
With many a laugh and pleasant look the Maid
Repeated the dear sounds, as does a child
The sweet words of its mother: what is more,

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She mastered them, and they were words whereby
She mastered greater things; as I shall tell.

At length they parted, but to meet again
When chance and opportunity allowed.
But the Emeer returned, and weary months
Kept them asunder, whilst their hidden love
Fed on their hearts, and turned their faces pale.
Again the Chieftain went, with all his tribe,
To venture open battle, or annoy
The skirts of the Crusaders. Then the pair
Met as before, and strengthened every hour
The spell that bound them; but they never fell
Into the meshes of a low desire,
Nor soiled the hallowed bloom of chastest thoughts.

One day Zoana, with sad looks and sighs,
Percursors of her tears, said—“Gilbert, hear!
I see thee pining for thy native land,—
Thy bones are wasted, and thy eyes' mild light
Darkened with inward sorrow; gold were vain
To ransom thee from thrall; 'tis love alone
Must pay the price of thy delivery,
And I will pay it. Ere to-morrow's sun
Leaps on his way rejoicing, thou art free,
And I alone am captive! Were it not
That age is falling on my father's head,
And were it not that I am chiefest Rose
In all his garden, Light of all his house,
In his paternal eyes,—I would partake
Of liberty and love with thee; but that
Is hopeless yet. Cast slumber from thy eyes
This night, and I will visit thee,—no more
Perchance to see thee upon earth.” The Maid
Wept, wept on Gilbert's sorrow-heaving breast,
Who also wept in concert,—soothed, and prayed,—

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Implored that she would share with him the gift
She offered; all in vain,—she only felt
The joy of grief, and in the indulgence she
With him wore all the afternoon away.

That night—a glorious night!—when troops of stars
Burned in the depths of heaven, and when the moon,
Of bright and ample disk, o'ertopped the arch
Of solemn midnight, stood beside his couch
The Angel of Delivery. “Oh! haste,
Be silent, fly!” she said, with 'bated breath;
“My favourite barb is champing at the gate;—
Take her, and keep her tenderly for me!
Fleet and sure-footed, she will bear thee soon
Beyond the reach of danger; fly at once!”
“And wilt thou not go with me, Maiden?” “No!
It cannot be! but thou shalt have my love,—
None other ever!” With her gentle hand
She led him forth, by many a sinuous path,
To where the steed stood snorting by the wall,
Impatiently. Zoana on her neck
Shed bitter tears, and with endearing hands
Caressed her. Unto Gilbert then she turned
With loving eyes; one long and ardent gaze,—
One close embrace, one burning kiss, wherein
Two lives seemed centred, and the Saxon Knight
Leaped in the saddle, spurned the dangerous ground,
And sped for life along the rugged road,
Peril before, a breaking heart behind!

Poor Maid! She had a double trial now
To brave and bear, well as her nature might,—
Her Sire's displeasure, and her hopeless love!
Long days and weary weeks she mused and mourned,
Forsook all solace, left her doves to fret,
Her roses to decay, her heart to break,

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“Yet brokenly live on.” Not dance, nor song,
Nor charm of tuneful instrument, nor word
Of loving slave, nor bulbul's voice among
The acacia boughs, nor free and genial air,
Nor shape of beauty anywhere beguiled
Her sorrow now. She nursed it as a mother
Nurses an ailing child, the more because
It pained and troubled her. She pored long hours
On the dear jewelled Crucifix; she breathed
His name incessantly; she conjured up
His noble image to her inward sight;
She felt his influence in her inmost heart,
And nought could bring her joy. At length her Sire,
By Western soldiers baffled and sent back,
Stepped o'er his threshold. Who can paint the rage
Which shook him like a whirlwind, when he saw
His Captive gone, and from his Daughter's tongue
Learned all her disobedience and her love!
But that she kept strong hold on his affections,
And with her mother's fair transmitted face
Confronted him with gentleness, his hand
Had slain her on the spot. He only dared
To chafe, and fret, and gloom, and grow morose,
Which to Zoana was a constant rack
On which her heart was laid. It might not last.

Twelve moons had travelled through the halls of heaven
Since Gilbert went, and with him, too, a part
Of her existence. Greatly daring, she,
Beneath the friendly shadow of the night,
Quitted her father's palace; taking nought
But every-day adornments, and the garb
Of Eastern beauty she was wont to wear.
Her path she knew not, nor the country round,
For in a gilded cage she had been kept,

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Unwitting of the world; but Providence,
Or instinct, or some hidden power which love
Created for her guidance, led her right,
And Westward kept her face.

For many a day,
For many a weary day, o'er burning sands,
O'er scarcely trodden paths, through tangled brakes
Where danger lurked, she nobly kept her way;
Eating of fruits that on uncultured trees
By chance she found, and drinking at the rills,
Scanty and few, that tinkled as she passed.
The wild was dangerous, but the haunts of men
More dangerous still. She came at last upon
The tracks of Warfare and of Violence,—
'Mong restless Arabs roaming o'er the waste
For blood or plunder, as the chance might be;
But these she passed, albeit their greedy eyes
Fell on her golden anklets, and the shower
Of costly ornaments that crowned her head.
But she gave look for look, and daring too;
Or, when unnoticed, sped in sudden flight,
Not daring to look back.

At length she came
Among the Western hordes, Crusading bands,—
The blue-eyed Saxon, and the fiery Gaul,
The dark-eyed Norman, warlike brothers all.
Zoana here recalled the darling words
Which were to be her talisman, and now
She “England, England! London, London!” cried,
With earnest voice, appealing with fair face
To all she met. Some jeered her as she passed,
And others with rude hands assailed her charms;
But others—gentle Knights—with courteous care
(Interpreting her well-known words aright)

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Gave her safe escort for a little way,
And pointed out her course.

On, on she went,
But listless, weary, hungry, and oppressed
For needful sleep,—a blessing she had caught
Only at intervals, beneath a tree,
A friendly rock, or thicket-covered dell,
Safe by God's Providence from savage claw
Or man's insulting hand. What is't she sees,
That with arrested step, dilated nostril,
And breast upheaving, she with wondering gaze
Looks on before her? Can it be the Sea?
It is, it is the Ocean! blue and bright,
A mighty desert greater than her own,
And fresher, lovelier far. She now beheld
Strange giant things, unknown to her before,—
Great ships with bellying sails, that strained to go
Out on the briny element of waves.
She was at Ptolemais, the ancient port,
Then famous and thick-peopled. Pilgrims there
In crowds were gathering to embark for home,
And she propitiated with her looks
Their pious natures, crying out alway—
“Oh! England, England!” plucking from her hair
Some gem wherewith to satisfy their claims,
And pay her voyage thither. All amazed,
Yet pitying the while, they took her in;
Gave food, and gentle words, and place of rest,
Where she lay down in happiness, and slept.
When sleep forsook her eyelids it was Eve,
Sweet Eve, with sunset on her brow, and far
They were at sea, no strip of land to break
The level grandeur of the great expanse.

Zoana stood upon the heaving deck,

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Musing on many things; her hope and love,
Her home and father, and her loneliness;
Which loneliness, meanwhile, expanded all
Her thoughts, and made her feel on equal terms
With any fate. But soon she felt a novel qualm,
The penalty which Neptune takes from all
New comers, lassitude of frame,
Sick fancies and sick feelings, and a scorn
Of life. But there were those at hand who knew
Her state, and came with ready help and kind.
When night had gathered deeply in, about
The middle watch, she was erect and well;
Walked on the deck, and stood upon the prow,
Big with her new emotions. Countless Stars—
Moon there was none on that her first sea night—
Clustered in constellations o'er her head:
Boötes and Arcturus,—Charles's Wain,—
Dazzling Orion, and the Golden Lyre,
Which looking down on that night-shadowed deep,
Seemed diamond points thick set in sombre steel.
And then the waves in tortuous play and wild,
Lifted their fringèd edges to the night,
And moved like blazing snakes, ahead—behind,
As if the sea were filled with lustrous life.
Bewildered, yet uplifted in her soul,
She stole to rest, and dreamed of him for whom
She perilled life and honour, all she had.

Morn rose upon that Mid-Terranean sea
In calm, clear glory, and the Syrian Maid
Was up as soon, filling her soul with grandeur.
Where'er she stepped, a silent homage glowed
In rudest hearts; the sailors were subdued
To gentle gestures and respectful looks,—
Proof of the power of Beauty, when 'tis linked

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With chaste demeanour, redolent of Heaven.

On sped the bark, past Cyprus, dedicate
To her the ocean-born, the Queen of Love;
Past Crete to old Melita, where St. Paul
Dropt manna from his lips; and on again
Towards Sicily, the Arcady of Song;
Touching, meanwhile, those many-clustered Isles,
Lipari, where the fires of Stromboli
Flame on incessant, a gigantic plume
Of gloom and glory, swaling towards the sky;
An old and constant beacon-fire to those
Who sail the surface of that lovely sea.
Still on the vessel made her gallant way,
The breeze propitious and the welkin clear,
Until she stayed her helm, and furled her sails,
At Honfleur, superannuated port
Of ancient Normandy.

The voyage o'er,
Zoana stepped upon the shore with joy
And gratitude, an utter stranger there;
And yet she thought 'twas England. Maid forlorn!
Thy trials were not ended! Flushed with hope
She trod the stranger streets, and unto all
Said with inquiring gesture—“England?” “No!”
And then they shook their heads, and with stretched hands
Pointed to distant shores. Zoana drooped,
And with despair unutterable fell
Prone on the ground. But generous hearts were there
Among the Poor—the Poor are ever kind
When Suffering to their feelings makes appeal—
Who took her in and tended her with care.
But on the morrow, restless as before,
The one great object of her hope and love
Unconsummated, she resolved to go.

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They led her forth, and on the great highway
Directed her towards England, but with mute
And kind farewells.

Then on she boldly sped
With resolute endeavour, while the birds
Sang in the wayside trees, and the mild light
Of the Autumnal Sun shone sweetly down,
And gilded all her path. Still on she went,
O'er wide and bare champaigns, through forest glooms
Of dreary length, small towns, and villages
Of rudest structure, rudely peopled; for
The children gathered round her, crying out—
“A Dancing Girl, a Dancing Girl!” and plucked
Her showy robe, and dashed with daring hand
At her bright ornaments, and boldly laughed
In her pale, pensive countenance; but she
Eluded them, and sped with quicker steps
Along her way. Seeing her ornaments
Awoke cupidity, she took them off,
And hid them in her bosom, lest they should
Work her yet greater harm. Within the towns
She met with better treatment, finding food,
And water for ablution, paying ever
With some small jewel from her store. As yet
She did not dare to lodge there, but preferred
To make her couch upon the grassy sward,
Beneath the shelter of a tree or thicket,
Albeit her delicate frame was numbed and chilled,—
Her garments and her tresses wet with dews,—
Her strength diminished and her health decayed.

Days had she travelled, weary and forlorn,
Hungry and faint, with lacerated feet,
And heart that fluttered and grew sick,—
Sick with its own emotions; worn and spent,

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Enfeebled and o'erpowered, and racked with pain,
Prone on a bank she lay despairing down,
What time the night was closing in, dark clouds
Heavy with rain o'erhanging in the sky,
And gusty winds whirling the faded leaves
Around her head. And there she lay and wept,
Calling on Gilbert with a passionate voice,
Till soul and sense in blank unconsciousness
Were blotted out, and moveless there she lay.

By happy chance a stalwart Monk drew nigh,
With hasty steps out-hurrying the storm
That gathered fast; with startled step he paused,
And marvelled much to see a female form,
Lovely and delicate, dressed in foreign garb,
Extended lifeless there. In his strong arms
He bore her gently as a little child,
And took her to his Monastery, where
They chafed her tender limbs, and used
Exciting cordials, haply to restore
The functions of her frame. As they unbound
Her snowy breast, they wondered to behold
The jewelled Crucifix, and pearls which she
Had lately worn. She woke to consciousness,
And found kind faces round her; then she fell
Into a deep and blessed sleep, for long,
Long hours. When slumber left her eyes
The noontide sun shone on the Gothic walls,
And she arose, and donned her robes, and tried
To go straightway, but they with gentle force
Withheld her, pointing to her tender feet.

Three days against her eager will she stayed,
Brooding upon her love. When these elapsed
She sought the Monk, and with inquiring eyes
Said—“England! London!” stretching forth her hand

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Towards where she knew not. He, with kindly looks
And fatherly solicitude, went out,
And put her on her track; but first he drew
Upon a tablet many a branching line
Whereby she might be governed, and not stray
Far from her proper path. And then he laid
His hand upon her head with reverent touch,
And blessed her, watching her receding form
Till it was gone from sight.

And she went on,
Refreshed in frame, renewed in hope, and came
Late in the afternoon upon a town
That looked upon the sea. The sea again!
And her heart sickened at the glorious sight,
Because it seemed interminable, and
A barrier which her courage must surmount.
Among the crowd she mingled, crying ever—
“Oh! England! London!” with most piteous voice.
She took a sparkling jewel from her breast,
And to a rough-faced Master of the Waves
Gave it beseechingly, and with a look
Of earnest pleading, “England!” on her lips.

And she embarked, and in some few brief hours
Saw the white cliffs of Albion looming up
On her enchanted gaze. “England!” they said,
And she set lightsome foot upon the soil,
Bowed down upon the ground, and kissed the stones,
Speeding along with foot as light and fleet,
With eyes as wildly bright, as the gazelle
In the wide plains of Araby the Blest.
Then “London! Gilbert!” she began to cry,
Deeming, poor Maid! that he was known to all.
The people, wondering, pointed out the way,
And gave her bread, and blessed her as she passed,

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Because of her strange beauty, which unlocked
All hearts, and riveted all eyes
In loving gaze.

On, on she went again,
Through Kent, delightful province! fair and green,
With gentle hills, and pastoral vales, and streams
For ever bright and musical. These charms
To young Zoana had a nameless spell
Which knit her to the land, or haply she
Loved it because of Gilbert, for whose love
She had left home and country. Soon she saw
The ancient towers of Canterbury, high
In the clear evening air. Couldst thou have seen
Into the womb of Time, Zoana, thou
Hadst felt a shudder through thy gentle frame,
A strange, dread shadow on thy gentle soul,
Passing this city; for thy haughty Son,
The Churchman Beckett, fell beneath the hands
Of violent assassins, who performed
The wish but not the word of kingly hate.
Within the walls of that Cathedral fane
Thy offspring died, staining with martyr-blood
The altar of the Lord;—so History tells.

The lovely Pilgrim,—Pilgrim of pure love,
Passed through the city, and for many miles
Pierced the unpeopled country, lying down
Beneath the boundless canopy of stars,
The moon her chamber-light, perchance to sleep.
Slumber was stealing o'er her purple lids,
And weariness relaxing all her limbs,
When sounds of heavy feet and boisterous laughter
Roused her to anxious consciousness. A form
Of ruffian aspect and gigantic build
Was drawing near her, with a noisy band

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Behind him. Those were rough, unsettled times,
And these marauders, living upon chance
And crime. “What, ho! what have we here?” exclaimed
The stalwart leader, as with rudest hands
He seized Zoana. “Dainty, by my soul!
A fitting mistress for an outlawed lord;—
Come thou with me!” Zoana, quick as light,
Drew from beneath her robe a trusty friend
She had not used—a short Damascus sword.
With this she pierced the ruffian's heart, and fled,—
Fled for her life a league along the way,
And breathless, hopeless, terrified, and faint,
Entered a village, and with all her weight
Fell 'gainst a cottage door. The inmates came,
Amazed,—beheld the lovely creature there,
And took her in, astonished at the sight.

The mother of that house—a gentle dame—
Was a pure Saxon, flaxen-haired and mild;
And she had daughters of her own, which were
Her household treasures; therefore did she feel
For this strayed Lamb, and in her motherly lap
Took her and nursed her like a petted child.
The sad, pale, patient Syrian Maid relapsed
Into a dangerous illness, which had been
Gathering within her in her pilgrimage.
Fever, delirium, and deep-seated ills
They wot not of, just held her o'er the grave,
But nothing more. For forty days she lay
In that poor cottage in the Wolds of Kent,
And then she rallied, for her very love
Sustained her, for her time was not yet come.

When partial strength returned, she would arise
And go upon her way; reproof was vain.
She poured into the lap of her who saved

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An ample recompense, and hurried out
To consummate her task. But now the ways
Were white with Winter's earliest snows; the trees
Naked and mournful, and the cheerless sun
Feeble in warmth and light; but ne'ertheless
She kept undaunted on, and in three days,
Quivering and aching all her fragile frame,
She trod the skirts of London. Maid forlorn!
A greater desert tasks thy efforts now
Than thine, or Ocean's; may the all-seeing God
Guide thee through all its labyrinths, and lead
Thy faltering footsteps safely to the goal!

Into the very thick and stir of that
Stupendous town she plunged; through countless streets
Reiterated with untiring lips
The darling music;—“Gilbert! Gilbert!” still
She rung in every ear and every place,
Until the sun went down, and she
Shivered through all the night despairingly;
Without a shelter, and without a roof
Save Heaven's. With the late dawning of the sun
She rose again, benumbed, and trembling 'tween
Two lives, of Earth or Heaven; and what were Earth's,
Without the precious link that bound her to't?
From dawn till noon, from noon till dusk of eve
She wandered on, the mocking-bird within
Her lonely heart exclaiming—“Gilbert!” Ne'er
For five brief minutes did the mournful word
Remain unuttered. Round about her came
A motley throng, which followed her about
And clogged her footsteps, which were getting faint
From inward agony.

At length, when night
Was stealing on with dim and dreary face,

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And snow was whirling in the leaden air,
She fell exhausted on the stony step
Of a great house that stood in ancient “Chepe;”
And though her limbs were motionless, her tongue
Cried “Gilbert! Gilbert!” with despairing strength,
The crowd about her roaring like the sea.
In that great mansion casements were unclosed,
And curious eyes looked out, as if to see
The cause of the commotion. Soon there came,
Rushing from out the door, a noble form,
Who gazed upon the wanderer. “God of Heaven!
Oh! can it be! It is!” and looking down,
He saw the jewelled Crucifix, that hung
Glittering upon her breast, and the dear name
Of “Gilbert!” coming faintly from her lips.
He spurned the crowd aside, and in his arms
Took the most precious Burden, and within
Bore her triumphantly, and closed the door.

“Oh! my Zoana! Treasure of my soul!
Bird that hath come from thy far Eastern nest,
For an unworthy mate, come to my heart,
And let me cherish thee unceasingly,—
Nurse thee, and love thee, and devote my life
To make and magnify thy happiness!”

And so he wed her, and for many years
They dwelt in Christian harmony and peace,
The Dove expiring in the nest it sought!