Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, Memory!—as our boyish years roll by,
How many a vision fades from Fancy's eye,
How many a golden dream of days long past,
And airy hopes, too fair, too bright to last!
All, all are gone. The wild Arabian tale,
Aladdin's lamp, and Sinbad's magic sail,
These have no power to chain the listening ear,
Or hush the soul in extasy of fear:
Untenanted, unhaunted now, the hill,
The lonely heath, the waving woods are still;
Fairies no more beneath the moon's pale light
Reveal their mystic dance to mortal sight;
Each shadowy form grows dim; and we deplore
A splendour that is seen on earth no more.

Yes! It is Manhood's haughty right to quell
Young fancy's fire, and break the darling spell,
To strip the mind of all she valued most,
And grant her poor return for what she lost.

Land of Romance, Farewell! Yet though we part
With these fond superstitions of the heart,
Oh let us not in scornful wisdom deem
These old memorials but a baseless dream,
Mere phantoms idly raised to while away
The lingering hours of some long summer's day.
Far otherwise they think, who best may scan
The powers at work within the heart of man.

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They know how heavenly pure the soul should be,
Which fancy's gentle thraldom hath made free;
They know how pensive thoughts may best arise
To kindle nature's holiest sympathies,
The deep affections of the breast to move,
And call to life the strong, meek power of love.
Visions like these float swiftly through the mind,
Like the soft flowings of the voiceless wind.
Have ye not seen the shadow-stains that glide
On gleamy days along the mountain side,
How they unveil in every green recess
Strange, mingling scenes of power and loveliness,
And then in stately pomp ride on? So too
Imagination's gay, though transient, hue
Discloses to the reason's inward eyes
Somewhat of nature's depths and mysteries.

And thus with you, fair forms of days gone by,
Glories of Song, high feats of chivalry!
Cold were the man whom tales of ladye-love
And knightly prowess have no spell to move.
Such were the strains that gushed like living fire
From the wild chords of Ariosto's lyre;
Or from that harp, alas! too soon unstrung,
That to the Tweed's wild dashings sweetly rung,
Whose mourning waves still softly bear along
The dying echoes of her poet's song.

Holiest of Knighthood's gallant sons were Ye,
A sainted band, the Knights of Charity!
'Twas not an earthly guerdon that could move
Your gentle Brotherhood to acts of love.
Fame's silver star, and honour's dazzling meeds,
And glory reaped in battle's daring deeds,
These could not lure those hearts to mercy given,
Who, poor on earth, were rich in hopes of Heaven.

117

Yes! it was well in those dark days of old
Europe should wonder, as her Pilgrims told
How haughty warriors left the lordly hall
For the rude cells of that poor Hospital,
And bade ambition's restless throbbings cease
At the still watchword of the Prince of Peace:
How along Salem's streets, in sable vest,
The Silver Cross emblazoned on the breast,
The lowly Brothers moved with hurried tread
To tend the wayworn pilgrim's dying bed,
And give, for Christ's dear Name, to that dim hour
Religion's awful, consecrating power.

Peace to that ruined City! peace to those
Whose sainted ashes in her vaults repose!
There, when the Arabian Prophet's countless throng
Rolled, like an eastern locust-swarm, along,
And blight came down upon the nations, there
St. John's bright banner floated in the air,
Curling its glossy folds against the sky,
While clarions pealed, and pennons waved on high.
One speechless look, one silent prayer to Heaven,
And, hark! the Christian's battle-cry is given:
The dauntless knights thrust back the advancing flood,
And Siloa's brook runs red with Moslem blood.

Alas, fair Salem! Piety may weep
O'er the dark caverns where thy champions sleep.
There stern disorder strews along the ground
Fragments of elder, holier days around,
And ruin rears aloft her ghastly form,
Dim-shadowed in the blackness of the storm.

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No feathery nopal-tree, nor spreading palm
Shed o'er thy hills their wildly-graceful charm.
Few flowers are there, but round each falling tomb
In scattered tufts bright orange-lilies bloom,
Bursting from out their silvery, gauzelike sheath
To smile in beauty o'er the shrines of death;
And cedars crown the hills, a silent band,
The only warders of thy wasted land;
Thine only troubadour the southern breeze,
Singing his quiet song among those ancient trees.

Vainly for you, brave Knights, did Europe pour
Her ardent bands upon that sacred shore.
Vainly St. Loui's Oriflamme rode high
In gleamy splendour on the eastern sky,
Far in the swarthy vales, where ancient Nile
Rolls his rich flood round many a lotus-isle.
Too fruitful harvest of the Paynim lance,
There lay thy chosen sons, unhappy France!
Vainly did Edward lead the bannered host,
While England's war-cry ran along the coast;
The Saracens rolled on, and thousands fell
Before the cohorts of the infidel,
And bright above the eddying tide of war
The conquering Crescent glittered from afar.
Yet still, where carnage fiercest swept the field,
The Crimson Vest, like lightning, shone revealed;
Still, still they come, the Warrior-Brothers come,
Where on the ruined altars of their home
Are hung bright crowns of holiest martyrdom!

That glory hath gone by! On Judah's shore
The Christian soldier plants the Cross no more;
And Acre's ramparts, wasted Ascalon,
Mourn for the gallant Brothers of St. John.
And sadly now, brave Knights, upon the seas
Your fading banner droops, as though the breeze

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That wooed its silken folds to play, had come
From the green hills that were that banner's home.
There on his deck the silent Warrior stood
Scanning with sternest gaze the heaving flood,
As if to find in those dark depths below
Some magic talisman to soothe his woe.
He dared not eye the sunny land that lay
In the blue distance many a mile away.

The glory passed away; her icy hand
Dark misbelief had laid on that dear land.
Yet, faithful still, the western Pilgrim trod
In pensive silence up the Mournful Road,
And marked with fond affection's eager eye
Where the Redeemer was led forth to die.
Oh! was it strange in such an hour to feel
A dim, a shadowy dread around him steal,
(Not the unholy, restless fear that springs
From out the bitterness of earthly things,)
A hallowed dread, that lulls the soul to rest,
And whispers peace and gladness to the breast.
Shedding around our path, where'er we move,
The deathless lustre of intensest love.
If thou wouldst know how those fond pilgrims felt,
When, weeping, at their Saviour's tomb they knelt,
Go, seek some chancel where the moonbeams throw
Their cold, chaste radiance on the tombs below,
Where the world-wearied nun her vigil keeps,
And at the lamp-lit altar prays and weeps:
Go, mark her quivering lips, her streaming eyes
Upraised in speechless fervour to the skies,
And read that love, which words may not express,
In the pale depth of their blue silentness.

Far o'er the waves those gallant Warriors roam
To win in other climes another home.

120

Four years they fought, fair Rhodes, 'gainst leaguered powers,
To plant their banner on thine ancient towers:
They fought and conquered. On the Grecian seas
In fearless triumph ride their argosies,
Where erst the pirate-barques were wont to sweep
In haughty lordship o'er the Lycian deep.
No more the lone felucca seeks to glide
Round the tall headlands on the summer tide,
Or smoothly steals along from shore to shore,
Charming the ear of night with muffled oar.
But Moslem hatred sleeps not: that dark host,
Flung like a weary billow on a coast,
Gathers with angry sound. Ah! who shall tell
What met thy gaze, thou lonely Sentinel,
When, standing watchful on St. Stephen's hill,
The City lay below thee, fair and still?
In reddening streaks, that peaceful April morn,
Across the sea the first faint light was borne.
The calm Ægean spread her breast of blue
To skies of deeper yet, and lovelier hue,
To Grecian skies! And there old Asia lay,
Touched with the golden hand of early day;
And wide beneath him stretched his native isle,
Bright with an eastern spring-tide's magic smile.
Meadows of flowering myrrh perfume the breeze
That freshens o'er the bosom of the seas:
And there yon forest's leafy depths entwine
Their budding foliage round the Parian shrine;
And delicate wild-roses too have thrown
Their blushing chaplets round the chiselled stone

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In natural gracefulness; to morning's rays
The laurel-rose her gaudy gem displays,
Where the soft-rippling streamlet gently moves,
Winding with quiet lapse among the groves.
Beautiful Island! fair that morn wert thou,
How passing fair in all thy ruin now!

Lo! On the sea a thousand Crescents gleam,
Glancing and flashing in the rising beam:
And thickly gathering sounds come sweeping by
Of war-cries fierce and maddening minstrelsy;
And, wild and harsh, the cymbal-note is borne
On the deep stillness of the breaking morn.
Mohammed's galleys come! The Sentinel
Rung from his lofty tower the larum bell,
And, as its toll in startling accents spoke
Of danger and of fear, the sleeping City woke!
Then came the battle's din: the cannon's roar
Was echoed back from Caramania's shore;
And fearfully along that lovely sky
Glared the red tempest of artillery.

Dear was that triumph bought, Brave Chief, for thou,
When death came down upon thy laurelled brow,
Didst in that hour with clear, prophetic eye,
The gathering storm of eastern war descry:
And, Rhodes, thy matrons might have spared the tear
They shed so wildly o'er the old man's bier.
They might have spared it for that bitter day
When through thy shattered streets they took their way,

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And He, the generous victor, wept to see
The high-souled chieftain's peerless dignity,
Deeming a Christian had some magic power
To bear him up in sorrow's darkest hour.

Where were thy tears, wide Europe, when the blast
Of Paynim war o'er that fair island passed?
And where thy gratitude, when ocean bore
That close-furled banner to the Latian shore?
Was it for you it oft had waved on high,
Decked in the crimson pride of victory?
Alas! On far St. Elmo's castled steep,
By whose low crags the waters never sleep,
It hangs its sullen splendours o'er the deep;
Far from that hill around whose rocky base
A hundred villas shine with eastern grace.
No terraced vines, no lilied fields are here,
Laughing in rich luxuriance all the year:
No incense-breathing gardens freight the breeze
That makes low music in the cypress trees:
Ah no! the hot sirocco's withering breath
Flings o'er yon hills the arid hue of death,
And the fierce sun looks glaring from on high,
As though a curse were in his broad, bright eye.
His beams, like locusts, sweep the weary land,
Or burn like flames upon the cloudless strand,
While the tired eye explores the dazzling air,
But seeks in vain—no grateful cloud is there.
No sylvan groves, no hospitable shades
Temper the ruthless noontide in their glades;

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Only the stiff carrubas there are found,
Spots of black foliage on the tawny ground;
While the long-trailing melons here and there
Weave a green carpet o'er the surface bare,
And the red cactus-blossoms, as they smile,
Mock the scant verdure of the dusty isle.

There like an eagle in her rocky bower,
The gallant Order braved the Moslem power,
While Europe echoed with their martial fame,
And rung with La Valette's undying name.
Alas! 'twas as a gleam of glory shed
From stormy skies upon the mountain's head.
That gleam is past; and England's pennon now
Floats gaily o'er St. Elmo's castled brow.
Beneath that guardian pennon, undismayed
Wealth's busy votaries ply their peaceful trade,
And church-bells fill with life the languid breeze
That scarce can curl the hollow murmuring seas,
While the white city, strong in faith and love,
Looks on her azure inlets from above,
And wraps old memories round her, like a spell,
Of shipwrecked Paul who loved her land so well;
Whom wild waves cast upon her barbarous shore,
That Melita might serve false gods no more.
Now, as night's silent footfall steals along,
The Maltese boatman chants his even-song,
Freighting with Mary's name the moonlit air
That silvers many an old memorial there;
And many a hospice, blanched and seamed with years,
O'er the deep-shadowed streets its head uprears;
And lowly wisdom loves to render yet
The unavailing tribute of regret
To an historic glory that hath set!

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Farewell, then, gentle Warriors! Once again
'Tis meet to raise the faintly-dying strain.
'Twas meet that when the pageantry of death
Hung round the hero's tomb the laurel-wreath,
'Twas meet his minstrel-boy should linger near
To weep alone upon his master's bier.
And often to the Warrior's silent cell
From a far land soft dreams shall come to dwell,
While busy fancy marks with curious eye
Tall helmet-plumes and bannered lines glance by,
Or feeds her meditative soul from springs
Of sunny thoughts and deep imaginings.
Oh! still in memory's clear, pathetic light
Shall live those dream-like forms for ever bright!
Yes! while undying spirits still must crave
A better, nobler land beyond the grave,
In lowliness the feeling heart shall come
And watch by the Crusader's marble tomb,
Till the weird stillness of the cloistered air
Steals o'er the soul, and charms it into prayer,
And the strong-glancing, eagle eye of Faith,
Sees far into the tranquil things of Death!

In the Hospital, the Knights wore a black vest, with a White Cross of eight points on the left breast. In the Camp, the White Cross on a red vest.

“In the end of April 1480, the grand armament entered the Lycian waters: and the Rhodian sentinel stationed on the summit of Mount St. Stephen, a hill two miles from the city, notified by signal that the Crescent was in sight.”—Sutherland's Achievements of the Knights of St. John, vol. ii. p. 9.

Peter d'Aubusson; Thirty-eighth Grand-master; called the Buckler of Christendom.

Solyman the Magnificent.

Villiers de l'Isle Adam; Forty-second Grand-master.

The St. Elmo at Malta was so called from a hill of the same name at Rhodes.