University of Virginia Library

The summer sea lay fair as any flower
Whose blue eye rests upon its mother sky;
A million sparkles danced, till far away
They seemed one liquid diamond; whisperingly
Wave melted into wave, and smile chased smile
Across the dappled waters, till each flake
Of purple vanished with its parent cloud
In that wide dreamland, where, dissolved in mist,
The sky and sea are one. Noon held her breath;
The sea-bird slept upon the crestless wave,
The ripple scarcely kissed the foamless shore,
The warm rocks trembled in the giddy air;
And basking in serene transparent depths,
The bright sea-ferns that nestled round their feet
Stirred not a frond. O'er all this loveliness,
Like a mild mother o'er her dimpled babe,
Whose beauteous calm is mirrored in her face,
Bent the blue heaven.

Far as the eye could strain,
As 'twere beyond the faint horizon-line,
Faded the lily-wingèd fleet of France,
Fraught with the flower of all her chivalry,
Fraught with her purest saint, her noblest king,
Fraught with the failing hope of Christendom.
Behind them lay what most the earthly heart
Holds dear: broad pastures, miles of sunny corn,
Silvery valleys with their bosomed slopes
Clad in the russet garment of the grape,
Quaint chateaux with their files of marshalled trees,
Rich chambers eloquent with heraldry,
The constant quiet joy of gentle wives,
The careful hope of princely babes, and all
The pride and art and luxury of life.
Before them lay the perils of the deep,
Remorseless weary wastes of blinding sand,
A sun, as fierce as love transformed to hate,
Glaring destruction from a tearless sky,
The tiger-breath of poisonous blasts that drain
The last sap lurking in the shrivelled limbs,
The jackal's howl, the vulture's silent swoop,
The gloating grin of an abhorrèd foe,
Famine and torture, pestilence and death—
Beyond all these, the Sepulchre of Christ.

So sailed the lily-wingèd fleet of France.
On many a deck stood many a goodly knight
Shading with level hand a gnarlèd brow,
Straining dim eyes lest, but a moment lost,
The drowning coast should sink for evermore;
They watched the glittering harbour of Marseilles
Dwindle to scarce a star, till none could tell
Whether he saw or fancied that he saw;
Then turning paced the deck in sullen mood,
Or talked in gathering knots regretfully;
For now the loadstar of Jerusalem
Had well-nigh set; the passion, that had wrapt
Prince, baron, priest, and serf in one wild flame,
Was now in ashes; not a soldier there
Save one, and he sublime above them all,
But wore his cross for gold.

He, saint and king,
Thought but a moment of his own fair realm
And loving people, of his faithful queen,
And those long hours of anguish when she lay
In Damietta, tended by one squire
Of eighty winters, and a son was born,
While conquering armies thundered at the gates,
And he lay captive in the Sultan's power,
Disdaining all his tortures.—Then he sought
His recreant lords, and marking how they drooped,
Rallied them thus:—

“Soldiers of Christ! 'tis meet
That we commend our loved ones unto God
In faith and prayer. That done, let us take heart,
Thinking on Him Who for our sakes braved all.
See on our breasts the Cross, whereby we live,
Dyed with His blood!—O, friends, the worst that we,
Guilty of that dear blood, may bear for Him,
Is light to what He, sinless, bore for us.
And trust me, friends, 'tis not the foeman's rage,
Nor scorching blast, nor thirst, nor pestilence,
That hitherto hath foiled the arms of Christ,
And mocked us with the mirage of His tomb;—
No! 'tis our own most foul, most faithless hearts!
Soldiers! shall we, while very infidels
Are faithful to their master, Antichrist,
Turn traitors to our Captain? Shall we call
The curse of Achor on us? Shall we sap
Our strength with crawling jealousies, or stain
Our tents with lust?—O, Sirs! if they whom Christ
Stamped for His type, if they whom God's own Son
Clasped in His arms and blessed, if they of whom
His Kingdom is, if Christian little ones,
Clad in full faith, approved of Holy Church,
A bloodless armament of snow-white doves,
Went forth and failed—then marvel not that we,
Clogged with our sins, faint-hearted, lacking love,
Stand yet upon the border-land and view
The promise from afar. Then, in God's name,
Let us unlock the closet of our heart,
Pluck forth the cherished thing that doth offend,
And shut in Christ's pure presence!”

At these words
A spirit like the breath of Pentecost
Rushed through the ship; a hundred cheeks caught fire,
A hundred leaden eyes flashed sacred flame,
A hundred hearts leapt up, a hundred blades
Dazzled the sunshine, and the cry, “Christ lives!”
Rang o'er the silvery laughter of the sea;
The very air stirred in its noontide dream,
Its light breath struggled into panting gusts,
And ocean's tender-heaving bosom shook
With quickened pulse; the lazy, lolling sails
Swelled firmly Eastwards, and the hissing spray
Danced at the bows.

Thus onward to his doom
Went Louis, King and Saint, midst one wide smile
Of peaceful blue; oft rapt in silent prayer,
When Morn lay half-awake upon the wave
Pillowed on downy mist, till Evening drew
Her opal-tinted mantle o'er her face,
And overhead the Eagle and the Swan
Soared on their milky way with star-set wings.
But no man knew as yet, not e'en the King,
Whither their voyage tended; so they furled
Their sails, and let their bubbling anchors down
Off Cagliari and the bugle's throat
Sang out a royal summons, loud and clear,
Startling the sea-bird on the distant cliff;
Then quick from many a slowly-swaying ship
Dropped the light boats, and fast from every side
Flocked Count and Baron, till the royal deck
Was all one blaze of banners and bright arms.
And as the sun, arrayed in golden clouds,
Rises majestic o'er the glancing waves,
Lending them each some beauty of his own,
Yet far outshining all—so rose the King
Above the glitter of that wavering throng,
And crossing first his heaven-reflecting breast
Spake to them thus:—

“My lords, the hour is come
When we must choose our ground whereon to fight
The cause of Christ; whether to turn our helms
And bend the eager bosoms of our sails
Southwards, where fair Tunissa, phœnix-like,
Mounteth triumphant o'er the buried dust
Of Rome's proud rival; or to seek that shore,
That thousand-channelled plain, half land, half lake,
Where, choked with rich abundance of his spoils,
Old Nilus labours slowly out to sea.
Now inasmuch as one, our firmest prop
Save God, is absent, one whose promised aid
With hope and courage nerves our enterprise—
Charles of Anjou, Sicilia's prudent king—
'Tis meet, or e'er the molten gold of thought
Harden to cold resolve, that it receive
His sterling impress. Know ye then, my Lords,
The mind of royal Sicily, inspired
No less by martial sense than Christian zeal,
Is wholly fixed on Tunis. I perceive
The judgment of so strong and staunch a friend
Is not without due moment. For awhile
I would withhold my own resolve, hard-won
From many a night spent wide-awake with Care,
In hope the thoughts of some in this wise throng
May lend it strength.—My lords, I pray you, speak!”
Then rose the Count of Flanders, huge and slow,
With eyes as dull as calm November seas;
Fringed o'er with hempen locks, his broad white brow
Seemed a blank page, where neither Pain nor Thought
Had traced one single record; like an oak,
That spreads athwart a wall of ice-planed rock,
Branched the green cross embroidered on his breast.
Low and yet full he spake, like some great bell
Tolled with a muffled tongue:—

“My lords, methinks,
Remembering all the pains we have endured
From heat and thirst and sickness in times past—
Foes against whom no human arms are proof—
'Twere best we carry, wheresoe'er we go,
The shield of caution. Egypt heretofore
Hath been to us no better than a tomb,
And those few hopes we bore away from thence
Look worn and famished. Sirs, the bravest hounds
Need sometimes fleshing, and our jaded host,
Much lamed of late by quarry overstrong,
Will fight the bolder drunken with the blood
Of some fat conquest; therefore let us rouse
Our sinking appetites with easy spoil;
Tunis in all her wealth and loveliness,
Tunis our prey, lies close and unaware!”

Next spake the Count of rock-bound Brittany,
A sorrow-seasoned man, whose patient eyes,
Like mellow sunshine o'er chill autumn fields,
Kindled his aging countenance with light
Of unimpassioned thought:—

“My liege, my lords,
Methinks our brave companion hath said well.
Moreover, Tunis conquered, the control
Of this great inland sea is thenceforth ours,
The Mamelukes do lose high vantage-ground,
Whence we, its gainers, may with full-fed hopes,
Dread reputation, and rich spoil, descend
On Egypt.”

But the dark Count of Champagne,
With twitching forehead and impatient eyes:—
“My lords, we know not what fair arguments
Lie hid behind these masks; but this we know,
That somewhat less than zeal for Holy War
Hath moved the King of Sicily to urge
Our expedition, and direct its aim
So far beside the mark. Let him who will,
Stain his pure sword, and lavish precious life,
Most solemnly devote to Jesu's cross,
In private feud. But know that I at least
Shed not one drop of blood, one bead of sweat,
In any man's behoof! I say, my lords,
We are not mustered here to fight the cause
Of any Count or King, save only Christ!”

With that a storm of savage lightning-looks
Flashed out from many a thunder-clouded brow,
Waking a murmur like the muffled roar
That rides before the hurricane. Then rose
King Louis, with firm lip but gentle front,
And eyes as meek as stars of Paradise:—

“Sirs! I beseech you, sprinkle on your wrath
The holy dew of Christian charity—
Nay, lay not any man an impious hand
Upon his sword, to turn the arms of God
Against Himself, or sow His sacred field
With seed of bloody discord! Sirs, for shame!
My lord of Champagne, 'twas too rashly spoke;
Allow, Sir Count, to others that pure zeal
Which all confess and all admire in you;
But let not any, brooding o'er his words
With warm and jealous breast, derive therefrom
More than was meant. Remember, gentlemen,
We all are servants of one master, Christ;
Bound by one law, redeemèd by one love,
And every brow sealed with the self-same print
Of blessèd brotherhood. It matters not
How wide soever we may stand apart
In rank, or wealth, or might, if but our hearts
Are all attuned to one true harmony;
It matters little how we be disjoined
In outward strategy, if but our souls
Are urged by one great motive to one end.
For sacred conquest, such as that we seek,
Comes not of cunning, is not won by storm,
But waits on quiet faith and fervent prayer.
Therefore be patient, while each counsellor
Unfolds his thought.”

So spake the righteous king;
And for awhile dead silence held the ranks,
Made sensible by lapse of languid waves
Against the prow, and the short lonely note
Of sea-gulls, and a mingled hum of life
From the dim harbour. Then—for eager looks
Implored him—rose the Count of Poictiers.

An early frost had kissed his iron hair
Lightly, as when the layers of morning mist
Wreathe from late summer lawns, and every blade
Gleams with a bright uncertain diadem,
Half icicle, half dewdrop; but as yet
The lusty vintage of departed youth
Mantled within his veins; his swarthy cheek
Was carved with many a silent tragedy
Of strangled passion; and his lofty eye,
Waited upon by quick obedient thoughts,
Ruled like a monarch from his marble throne.—
He rose, and crossed his mailèd breast, and spake:—

“Most gracious Sire, my peers, with all goodwill
I do concede to those renownèd lords,
The Counts of Flanders and fair Brittany,
And all who share their mind, the purest zeal;
Yet am I but the voice of many hearts,
Contending 'twere a sin to spend our strength
Or turn the headlong current of our wrath
On Tunis, while the Holy Land cries out
For instant succour. I do fear, my lords,
While we are lingering on an unknown coast,
Besieging a strong city unexplored,
Blunting our lances on a harmless foe
Two hundred leagues from Egypt, I do fear
Lest the affrighted towns of Palestine,
So hardly rescued from the infidel
By costly blood of many a Christian Knight,
Should yield them to the Saracen. We know
With whom we have to do, the fierce Bibars,
Sultan of Egypt, enemy of God,
Whose power corrupteth like a mortal plague
From Dor to Ptolemaïs. Doth he lie
In Tunis?—Nay, two hundred leagues from thence!
Two hundred leagues nearer the tomb of Christ!
Beside that river, that proud-swelling Nile
Which oft hath blushed with blood of Christian France,
And borne our brethren to a moaning grave
In the all-cleansing, wide, forgetful sea.
Then let us up, and ere he be advised,
Carry our wrath unchecked, our swords undulled,
Into the inmost bosom of his realm!”

He ceased: but ere the echo of his voice
Had reached the heedless waves, a swelling shout,
Like that which bruits some vanquished citadel,
Burst from the throng. Whereat, as though a cloud
Had sailed across the sun, deep shadow fell
Athwart the hope-lit forehead of the king;
A chillness smote his heart, and for awhile
His high resolve drooped like a sapless flower.
Then lifting up his thirsting eyes to Heaven,
He slaked them at the fountain of all life,
And turning on his councillors a face
Illumined with that love, whose gentle breath,
Like springtime melting winter's frozen heart,
Prevaileth over all opposing storms,
Spake to them thus:—

“My brave and faithful peers,
Brothers and fellow-soldiers of the Cross!
I know the lightning of your headlong wrath
Springs from a captive heat of holy zeal,
And is not kindled at the reeky torch
Of earth-born passion. Yet beware, beware!
For oftentimes the very sword of God,
Wielded by uncelestial hands, hath dealt
Most fearfully amiss. My lords, there sits
On the eternal judgment-seat of Heaven
A Counsellor whose name is Prince of Peace;
Who, though He left a sword upon the earth,
Wills not that any use it but to win
Souls to Himself; and if they may be won
Without the cost of bloodshed, bids us sheathe
His sword in loving-kindness, lest it turn
Upon ourselves, his worthless instruments.
Our counsels therefore should be wholly swayed
By two regards: the chief, how best to fill
The vacant room in Christ's wide fold; the next,
How to achieve such Heavenly victory
With lightest loss, not only of those lives
Already one with Him, but those dark souls
That may be His hereafter. Both regards
Do point one way—to Tunis. Ye well know
How oft of late her king hath sent to France
Ambassadors, as many deemed through fear,
Few sounding his deep purpose, which in truth
Is nothing less than to receive the rite
Of baptism at my most unworthy hands,
He, and through him his people.—O! my lords,
That were a glory to make dull the glare
Of sordid conquest, shrivel up the bays
Of mortal triumph, and outshine to death
The blood-red planet, kindling in its stead
The pastoral star that shone o'er Bethlehem.
That were a victory to make high Heaven
Ring o'er with joy and drown with angel-song
All the unlovely discords of poor Earth.
For but to sow one seed of Christian love
Is worthier in the eyes of Heaven than fields
Of slaughter, and the lightest grain of faith
Weighs heavier in the balances of God
Than warfare's richest harvest.—Where is now
The pride of Carthage? Where her palaces
Soft-lined with luxury, her silken beds,
The tinkling feet of pleasure-breathing girls,
The music of her fountains echoing
Through halls of marble coolness? Where her marts
Aching with costly merchandise, her fanes
Filled with faint incense and the hymns of old?—
Conquered and trampled, buried and decayed!
Her dust lies lower than the withered grass!
Yet from those ashes, if we do but plant
The Cross of Christ, shall spring a marvellous growth,
Wide as the world, sublime as Heaven itself,
The eternal Tree of Life!—which to achieve,
Most joyfully would I embrace the worst
That flesh can fear; would quit this living air,
And pass the bitter remnant of my days
In some foul dungeon, where the healing sun
Ne'er shed a ray, nor morning-breath of flowers
E'er entered, nor the song of bird or bee,
Where reptiles sicken, and the very weed
Dies on the slimy wall—yea! but for sin,
Would cast away the heritage of Heaven,
And spurn the immortal crown!—O! gentlemen,
Bear with my seeming madness till you hear
My warranty for this. Ye all do know
How I have watched of late when all things slept,
And inly wrestled many a teeming hour
In thought made pure by fast and constant prayer,
So haply I might win the ear of saints,
Or catch some whisper from the throne of God,
To point our wavering steps; and not in vain
Was heavenly guidance asked; for yesternight,
When all the huddling fleet was rocked to sleep
With murmurous lullaby of wind and wave,
I left my trouble-haunted couch, and sought
The influence of those silent counsellors
Who, since the cloudless night when first they met
In Man's strange horoscope, have never ceased
To utter the great tranquil thoughts of God
To fretful souls. Then, as I watched and prayed,
Methought the radiance of the jewelled Lyre
Grew ever brighter, nearer; and I saw
An angel take it, and with glittering hands
Sweep the great chords, till all the sky was full
Of wondrous music, and the furthest star
Throbbed like a fire; and when those holy strains
Drew back to heaven, I saw the Northern Crown
Descend upon the angel, and he fell
Swift as a moonbeam fledged with whispering wings,
And held the crown above me, and I read
“Tunissa” wrought in stars; but when I moved
To take it, a full blast of harmony
Rapt him away, and surged across the deep
Thundering out “To Tunis;” then the night
Grew slowly silent and a mystic gleam
Stole like the dawn of Heaven along the sea,
And smote the dead grey level of the main
Into a million crystals, till the air
Glistened with diamond-dust, and every wave
Lisped, as it fell, “Tunissa.”—Last there came
A weight of mist upon me, and methinks
I lay entranced; for when the veil removed
I heard the beating of my laboured heart
Blend with the sounds of day about the ship,
And felt the sun's kiss hot upon my cheek,
And saw the sea-birds, with white heads down-bent,
Float o'er my face beneath the naked blue.
My lords, the finger of the Most High God
Hath traced this vision, and a glorious crown
Remains for Tunis, and a deathless name
For you whom Christ hath chosen to fulfil
His boundless purposes of love and peace.
We go to pluck no earthly kingdom down,
To bind no bloody laurels round our brows,
Nor glut our baser part on others' pain.
We go to win a royalty for our Lord,
To sign a nation's forehead with the Cross,
To bid our brethren to the marriage feast
That shall not close till all be gathered in.
Let them that don the livery of Hell
Divide the spoil of lust with reeking hands,
And gulp the wine of conquest mixed with tears;
But we who wear the badge of God's fair Son,
Be ours this stainless glory, to bestow
A crown on Tunis, whose mysterious sheen
Shall light the utmost nations of the East,
Till all that dusky brotherhood, whom we,
Proud fools, despise, albeit the King of Heaven
Sprang from their midst, shall join our whiter flock,
And all the world be one celestial fold!”

So spake the king; and they that listened marked
An aureole, like the mellow zone of light
That breathes around a planet in the mist,
Glow from his sacred head, and steep his face
In living glory, shining through his mail
Like sunshine through a pearl, until his form
Grew radiant as an angel's, all beside
Earthy, and dull, and cold; and none dare lift
A thwarting voice, but all with one consent
Murmured “So be it;” and the doom was sealed.

That night, or e'er the giddy lights of earth
Danced in the island harbour, while the lamps
Of Heaven shone pale upon the dying sun,
A gentle breeze woke from its noontide sleep
Along the shore, and fluttered out to sea
Laden with sounds of loveliest harmony:
“Veni Creator,” chanted by a band
Of snow-white priests, who watched the holy fleet
Shrink to a sail upon the southern sky;
And they within the ships first heard the hymn
Swelling and falling in sweet gusts, and next
A whisper scarcely caught between the laps
Of prattling waves, and last a memory,
So like the straining sense, that wind and wave
Seemed to repeat the subtlest cadences
When all had sunk to silence.

So the fleet
Was wafted on towards the lidless sun.
Two days she drifted like a white-winged bird
Lost in a perfect orb of spotless blue;
Two nights within a closer orb, thick-set
With twinkling gems, she drew her radiant train,
Bright as a comet, far along the sea;
But ere the azure of the second morn
Melted to rose and silver, landward birds
Flew crying round the ships, and like a dream
The distant mountains grew upon the sight;
And ere the sun went down, they heard the surge
Unfolding slowly down the level shore,
And watched the glittering fish glance in and out
Down the bright dingles deep beneath the keel;
And anchored in the beauteous bay, and saw,
(Like Dido, when the softness of the scene
Went to her soul and bred an empire there,)
The mountains full five leagues across the bay
Double their splendour in the glassy deep.

But over all the solitary plain
Dead silence hung. The Carthage that had fought
For fair dominion of the glorious sea,
Lay buried deep beneath the buried wrecks
Of Carthage Roman-reared; and those few stones
That yet remained had hid their trampled heads
Low in the smothered grass and sifted sand.
And as, where once some lovely garden bloomed,
A meaner life of noisome weed upsteals,
More desolate than utter barrenness,
So on the two-fold grave of that proud realm
Had grown a scanty village; and a port,
As 'twere in scorn of her whose bosom nursed
The fleets of nations, fed a squalid few,
To whom the name of Carthage—her that shook
The world with terror—was an unknown sound.

The good king gazed and marvelled; for no sign
Of human life was on that lonely shore;
No thin blue smoke slept o'er the little town
Or curled in darker wreaths against the sky,
And the few barks which lay within the port
Dozed listlessly upon the stagnant brine.
Therefore he bad Florent, who ruled the fleet,
Take boat with some few trusty men, and prove
If treachery might not lurk beneath that hush.
For once a cry of terror—like the cry
Of some wild creature that has writhed and bled
All night upon the snare, and suddenly,
Her eyes dilate with anguish, hears afar
The crackling twigs, and sees the fowler's shape
Burst through the bush, and tears her swollen wound
In one last frantic struggle to be free—
Once, even such a cry startled the ears
That listened from the ships, then all was still.
But ere an hour had passed, Florent returned,
And met the king with cheerful eyes, and said:—

“My lord, an easy triumph will be ours
If that no time be lost. We found the ships
And houses hollow-empty, but in some
The ashes yet were warm upon the hearth,
And cats basked tamely at the open doors.
One human face alone we saw, and she
A wretched woman, old, and sick, and blind,
Who crouched within a filthy hut, and clutched
With skinny hands her scanty locks, and shrieked
In terror when we entered. Doubtless, Sire,
The dwellers on the coast have taken flight,
At sight of us, to Tunis. Ere day break
The city will be armed; but if we land
This very night, and scour across the plain
Three cool and starlit leagues, and scale the walls
Ere they be manned, the startled citizens
Will crouch like conies when a polecat storms
The crowded warren with his needle-tooth,
And Tunis will be ours without a blow!”

But the king answered:—“Truly, good Florent,
Thou speakest like a soldier, and thy words
Are wisdom of this world; but thou forget'st
Our sacred bent; we are not here to force
Beneath an earthly yoke an earthly foe,
But in a willing bond wed East to West,
The gentle tie of Christian fellowship.
How can we hope our brother will join hands
Whith Christ's fair Church, if she put on the mask
Of bloody hatred and unfaithful war?
To-morrow in God's name I mean to send
A messenger of peace, to call to mind
That holy purpose, and acquaint the king
Why we are here. If he refuse to keep
His Christian vow, there will be time enough
Alas! to cast away the olive-branch
And draw the hateful sword. But furthermore,
We may not venture any enterprise
Till Sicily be here, on whose accord
Our strength depends. Too much of bitterness
Was slowly borne in Egypt through the speed
Of self-sufficient rashness. This attempt
Let caution manage and firm prudence curb.”

So rare occasion slipped; and all that night
The restive soldiers tossed upon the wave,
Baulked into idleness; but when the face
Of Morn peered here and there between the folds
Of sea-mist rolling off the sluggard shore,
It glanced on flashing arms, and steeds that seemed
Giants to draw the chariot of the sun;
And as each curtain lifted, and rolled up,
A snowy cloud dissolving to clear blue,
It showed the coast thick-strewn with Saracens,
Gay with rich colours, like a garden sown
And blooming in a night. And when the king
Could not restrain his eager lords, he gave
The word to land, and fast from every ship
Fell boats o'ercharged with knights and blazoned arms
Almost to sinking, till the sea itself
Was hidden, and the fronting hosts appeared
Two sheets of summer blossom which a stream
Of sparkling foam divides. But when the Moors
Beheld the banners of the host of France
Nodding towards the shore, a sudden fright,
Like that which scares a file of staring sheep,
Ran shuddering through them, and they turned and fled;
And ere the shining pebbles, streaming back
With each receding billow, hailed against
The grazing gunwale of the foremost boat,
They seemed a swarm of flies across the plain.

So the wide shore was won without a blow;
But all the host was drawn up battle-wise,
In jealous order, each battalion crowned
With its own gay-wrought ensign, waving high
Above the glittering lances, as a pink
Waves high above its bristling close array
Of steel-blue spears. And when the shifting troops
Were firmly marshalled, the king's almoner,
Pierre de Condé, stood before the host,
And clarion-clear his silver-tempered voice
Rang through the bright blue morning:—

“In the name
Of our Lord Jesus Christ, and in the name
Of Louis, King of France, His Serjeant,
I take possession of this land and realm.”

And there they pitched their tents, and girt their camp
With fosse and mound, and manned the ancient tower
That stood upon the wave-worn promontory,
A steadfast sentinel of land and sea;
And with the next dawn half-a-thousand men
Planted the lily-broidered flag of France
High o'er the battered castle; and they housed
Their sick and women in the vacant homes
That stared on vacant pathways; but the men
Abode beneath their tents, and all day long
Whetted their keen arms till the wasted edge
Must be fresh-whetted, and explored the plain,
And chafed like beasts, and thirsted after blood.

Then to the king, still fondling in his breast
One darling hope, (for early yestermorn
A peaceful embassy had left the camp,
And still he trusted, though delay blew cold,)
Came dark-browed legates from the Moorish prince;
Who, when the king had bad them to his tent,
Made humble-proud obeïssance, and said:—

“To Louis, King of France, and all his pack
Of Christian hounds, Tunissa's faithful king
Sends uttermost defiance; and will meet
The Paynim with a hundred thousand men
To-morrow on the battlefield, to claim
There at his hands the baptism of his blood.
Moreover he hath seized since yestermorn
All Christian infidels within his realm,
And tethered them with chains, so to abide
Till every foreign dog hath quit this shore;
And if one hair of these his messengers
Be wounded, or the Christian king advance
One step towards his capital, they die.”

Whereat a sudden blast of manly wrath
Shook the king's firmly-balanced heart, and fired
To boiling all the royal blood of France;
But fleshly passion could not long prevail
In one whose pulse was governed by the flow
Of constant deep communion with his God;
For like a silver sunshaft piercing through
A purple pall of storm-cloud, came the thought
Of Him who turned the torture-notes of death
To everlasting music, when He prayed
Faint on the cross for those that nailed Him there;
And lighted by that thought, the Christ-like king
Forbore awhile to speak, and so returned
A soft reply, and sent the Saracens
Wondering back.

But such rare gentleness
Seemed craven to their heathen sense, and swelled
Their puny hearts with pride; and day and night
They prowled like wolves around the Christian camp,
With wolfish greed for easy straggling prey,
With wolfish panic at the bugle-call;
For when, made bold by darkness, they had rained
A shower of arrows on the sleeping tents,
And stung some half-armed warrior as he lay,
Who rose and blew a blast of loud alarm
Waking the clank of steel through all the host,
They waited only till the dancing shields
Glanced in the moonlight, dipping down the trench,
Then wheeled their steeds, and shocked the whispering night
With worse than brutal howlings, and struck spur,
Scouring like jackals when the lion nears.
And once three hundred Moslems on their knees
Crawled through the lines, beseeching to be crossed
With holy water, while a hundred more
Crept in their trail; and when the guileless king
Was serpent-charmed, and would have wrought their will,
Four hundred stings of poisoned steel flashed forth,
Four hundred foul mouths hissed out deadly hate,
Four hundred base forms writhed from off the earth
And darted forward; but his nearest knights
Rallied around their king, and held their ground,
And cried for succour; and ere long, the snakes,
Environed from without by those who watched
Expectant of some vile attempt, were hacked
To pieces; but the few that still could crawl
Lay in their fellow-reptiles' thickening blood,
Pleading for mercy at the hands of those
Whom they would fain have tortured with slow death;
And the proud knights, disdaining such a foe,
Beat them with flat swords whining from the camp.

Then stung to rage, and chafing at the curb,
The lords of France besought the gentle king
To check their speed no longer, for a friend
Who, lagging thus, would prove their dearest foe;
And when, each morning, grown by custom bold,
The Moorish hordes were seen upon the plain
Taunting to battle, scarcely could the king,
Recalling all the evils that ensued
In Egypt from rash onset, and their strength
In Charles, and his sure coming, rein his host.
By this the crescent moon, which quaked and ran
In silver links along the rippling sea,
That night before the fatal fleet set sail,
Had reigned her golden prime, and worn away,
And sunk, a phantom, underneath the plain;
And now a new-born crescent streaked the waves
With one thin line of broken light, and peered
Betwixt the mottled leaves and purpling grapes
That slumbered on the silent slopes of France;
And all that while from town and desert tent
Pressed help to Tunis, and the din of arms
Was heard along the rich reposeful shore
Of Nilus, and the fierce Bibars himself
Sent word of speedy succour; so the foe
Waxed proud with numbers and unchallenged strength.

But all that weary while, by night and day,
The lily-bannered host lay under arms,
Harried by worse than human enemies;
For dry and scorching as the sand below
Glared pitiless the beating sky above;
The choking air between was seen to reel;
And naught remained to feed their shrivelled throats
Save salted meats, which stung the cracking lips
And maddened the parched tongue; yet not a drop
Could all their prayers wring from the staring heavens,
And ever tempting them, the great salt sea
Laughed at their thirst.

Moreover, torrid blasts
Licked their sun-blistered cheeks with tongues of flame,
And cunning in their hate, the Saracens
Mounted the panting hills with mighty flails,
And raised great storms of sand, which, northward blown
Towards the tortured, whirled in burning showers
On to the camp, filled all their tents with dust,
Entered their eyes and ears like stinging flies,
Found every crevice in their mail, crept deep
Into unhealing wounds, and crammed the throats
Of those that cried with death.

But still the King,
Misjudging by his own firm faithfulness,
Which never borrowed weak strength of an oath,
Nor ever brake his Christian Yea or Nay
E'en to the basest, rested on a prince
More false than quicksand, and a murderer's word
Brittle as hollow ice.

Last, the same sun
Which, smiling o'er a thousand azure miles
Of winking wavelets, lit the crystal belt,
That girt the shores of France, with rainbow-spray,
And o'er her rustling cornfields shed the glow
Of golden peace, and tanned the reaper's cheek
As ruddy as his sheaf, and blessed the land
With ripeness and rich health,—the selfsame sun,
Commingling foully with the stale low air
Which lay pest-laden on that stagnant strand,
Gave life and force to many an unseen germ;
Which being breathed grew to a raging fire
Within the breast, devoured the wholesome flesh,
Seethed in the entrails, palsied the firm heart,
Rotted the belly, and, in fewer hours
Than blossoms fade in, left the soundest frame
A putrid horror.

Then full many a cheek,
Which proudly wore the seams of grisly wounds
And glowed for scorn of danger, paled and sank,
Touched by the carrion finger of the Plague;
Full many an eye, that foremost in the charge
Seemed mad for love of death, grew dull and glazed
And shrank within its socket at the glance
Of green-eyed Pestilence; full many a front,
Which some sweet lady, kneeling far away
For her dear lord, had kissed a moon ago,
And thought between her tears, “Was ever brow
So noble?”—now was blotched with loathsome boils
And knit with agony. The camp, which shone
So snowy-cool to view, ere long became
A charnel-ground of whited sepulchres,
Each tent a tomb, 'midst which the stricken men,
Unshamed by anguish, reeled in maniac rage,
Stark naked, rolled upon the burning sand
To ease by smart the itch of fiery blains,
Or staggered to the sea, and shrieking sank
Against the breaking wave, and let the surge
Wash them to death; some fell upon their swords;
Some sought the ships, and writhed within the hold,
Hearing the wavelet lap the baking board,
Till, faint with pain and smothered by the smell
Of melting pitch that oozed between the planks,
They clambered on to deck, either to swoon
Beneath the downright sun, or crawl aside,
And staring down upon the throbbing blue
Drop by the board and sink without a cry.
Then, guided by the kind but artless hand
Of that dark age, the rudely-fashioned knife
Did cruel service; for the cheeks of those,
Whose strength of core withstood triumphing Death,
Became as rotten parchment, and their jaws
Blackened and festered and decayed away;
Till, fearful for the ear and so the brain,
The anxious steel carved out the putrid parts
With ghastly patience, leaving the poor face
That once was proud a fixed and hideous yawn,
Never to speak, never to smile again.

And still the King said, Wait! albeit himself
Was nigh to sicken; and by this his Knights,
Though no constraining voice had held them back,
Could scarce have fought; for lean and pale and faint,
His strongest, who had borne their galling arms
Through all those scorching days and stifling nights,
His bravest, who had robbed their own parched lips
Of those few precious drops that were their due,
To cool some dying plague-corrupted brow,
His noblest and his courtliest and his best
Moved like their ghosts. One held the twitching hand
Of some prone knight, whose fixed and glazing stare
Knew not the iron face made soft with mist
Of manly pity; one bent down a head
Bared to the deathful sun, to catch perchance
Some gasping syllable of love for those
At home in France, half lost amid the buzz
Of flies within his ears; but ere the stars
Put forth their quiet mockery, he himself
Lay in delirium, muttering o'er the words
That ran and raged like fire along his brain,
Mixed with a roar of flies.

Then every night
Was heard the dismal requiem, and the surge
Low-moaning in the moonlight seemed the wail
Of love left desolate beyond the deep;
But night by night the awful harmony
Grew thinner, and the slimy beach at ebb
Flickered with fewer torches, and the air
Was laden with less incense, till at last
No solemn mass obscured the naked clank
Of pick and spade, but muffled soldiers bore
Loads to the common grave, and swung them in
Without a prayer, in wild haste; for the dead
Outnumbered them that buried.
So they toiled,
The dying 'midst the dead; and staggering oft
From hunger, heat, and spasms of fierce disease,
Purged the foul camp so long as strength remained,
And hid their ghastly burdens 'neath the earth;
Till all worn out with watching 'mid the sights
They saw, the sounds they heard, the air they breathed,
They ceased their sickening labours, and sank down
In sheer despair. The ditch that girt the camp
Became a nameless horror; o'er it hung
An ochre pall of pestilential gas,
So horrible that not the boldest knight
Dared to approach its margin, but the corpse
Rotted where first it fell; whence soon that pall
Spread over all the camp; a fungus, like
To putrid flesh, grew on the very tents;
And such a stench arose, that wandering birds
Fell senseless flying over it. Each tide
Receding left more bodies on the shore,
Swollen with brine and mangled by the teeth
Of loathsome fish; and thicker every day
Gathered the swarms of filthy-feeding flies
On that which vultures shrank from.
But one eve,
When the brave King lay sick within his tent,
His sons attending, he that should succeed,
And he that came most near his father's heart,
Tristan, the son of sorrow, Egypt-born,
A sudden shout shook all the stagnant air
That stank throughout the camp, and whilst it died
There came a footfall lighter than had been
For many a weary week, towards the tent;
And ere the King, whose watchful heart was quick
To catch an answer to unceasing prayer,
Could raise his head, the curtain of the tent
Was parted, and Florent, who ruled the fleet,
Stood over him with eager face:—

“My liege,
Be cheerful; there is hope; the sentinel
That watches on the castle-tower hath seen
A sail upon the distance, winging straight
Towards the shore; he lands while yet I speak,
Olivier de Termes, the harbinger
Of many a goodly ship and gallant crew
Now hither bound from Sicily, whose king,
Though he come late indeed, could scarce have come
More longed-for.”
Then the king, with far-off eyes
And wasted hands tight-clasped:—“Blessed be God
For all His tender mercies.—Go, Florent,
And tell my patient warriors, that the King
Would share their joy, as they have shared his woe,
And greet them once again before he die.
Go, bid them range themselves about my tent,
That I may see them all and say farewell.”

“Nay, lord,” began the other; but the King,
Raising a hand whose trembling more availed
Than sternest bidding, checked his faltering tongue:—
“Nay, good Florent; my hour is almost here;
As thou wert alway loyal to my love,
Do me this latest service.”

So Florent
Turned heart-sick from the king, and wrought his will
With aching faithfulness; and when the knights
Were ranged before the tent, the stricken saint
Leant forward, with wide eyes that seemed to count
Each hair of them and search their inmost souls,
Till every fault seemed precious, and the ill
More hard to part from than the leal and true.
So some fond mother, when her wilful boys
Break from their village home to brave the world
Grieves most o'er him that most hath slighted her
So Christ himself, the very heart of love,
While faithful women lingered by the cross,
Spake comfort rather to the dying thief.
But when the death-light of those yearning eyes
Fell on him, not the purest soldier there
Could meet their truth, but hung the head, and some
Dared not to raise it more. Then faint, yet firm,
The voice that ne'er had breathed a truant word
Unfit for angel ears, stirred the sad air:—

“Brothers in Christ! Not all our sins have power,
How deep soe'er they be, to quench the hope
Of mercy at the last; then be ye strong,
Seeing that Heaven hath heard our feeble prayers,
And sent its angel at our sorest need.
Oh, were it but for thankfulness, be strong!
And fear not Christ will utterly forsake
His cause for which ye wrestle, nor His sons
Whom he hath bought with suffering more intense
Than all earth's misery—Sirs, I cannot speak
That which I would. The guiding hand of Death
Beckons me gently, from beyond this gloom
Of thought and fear and strivings after speech,
To perfect light and silence.”

And no tongue
Said “Nay lord;” for the look that held their speech
Was as the look upon the face of one
Who, after years of parted toil and pain,
Sees yet afar the love for whom he toiled
Waving him welcome; but all bowed the head
In prayerful silence, then with lingering gaze
Moved slowly past, like mourners from a grave,
Who feel the one they leave less pitiable
Than they who leave him; yet for him they weep,
And not for selfish sorrow.

But the King
Lay long with waxen eyelids closely drawn,
And parted lips, through which the failing breath
Came not as strongly as the faintest sigh
Of summer twilight, when the quaking-grass
Scarce trembles, and the aspen-leaves are dumb.
And while he lay as dead, his darling son,
The child of sorrow, who till now had hushed
His own complaint for love of one more dear,
Was sorely stricken. So the earliest sounds
That smote the saint-king's ears, when yet again
He crept from out the shadow of the grave
And staggered on its brink, were muttering tones
And broken ravings of that winsome voice,
Whose every accent to a father's love
Had hitherto been music.

Then those few
That watched beside the King, perceiving Death
Had seized already on the tenderer prey,
Gave word, ere yet the father's helpless lips
Could frame remonstrance, and the son was borne
Senseless away from those entreating eyes,
Whose fondness shone e'en through the mist of death,
Following, as the new-made slave, that stands
Bound in the mart, follows with struggling eyes
His child, sold first, and borne he knows not where.

But Love, Death's foe and conqueror, deeply shook
The smothered embers, till the flame of life
Glowed through the ashen lips, and once again
The hectic flashed across the hollow cheek;
And the strong fervour pulsing from the heart
Quickened the palsied tongue to steady speech:—
“My son, my son!—Where have they borne my son?”
“Sire, to the ships, in hope the ocean-air,
Less close than that which reeks within the camp,
May heal him; and we would that our dear lord
Would seek him there.”

Then for a little space
A tremor stirred the father's lips, and tears
Were blended with the death-mist; not for long;
For with firm voice but weaker:—“Well for him;
And ye did well; but I must live and die
With these whom I have brought to suffer thus.”

So death awhile was baffled, and the saint—
In whom self-love had perished, other love
Sprung in its stead, as fairest flowers arise
From ashes of foul weeds—ceased not to toil,
Howe'er his brain might throb, while any shift
Could ease the tortured army; neither ceased
To offer up his will a sacrifice
Each hour to Heaven; yet ever and anon,
More often through the listening hush of night,
Sent word for him who lay within the ship,
Now three days still.

Long shrank the boldest lips
From blurting forth a truth grown half a lie
By hiding; till one night the messenger,
Charged with fair falsehood, 'neath the searching light
Of eyes that seemed a part of God's own eyes,
Quailed; and a sudden lightning seemed to scorch
All cunning, as a web is shrivelled up
By touch of flame; and all the tent was dumb.
Then slowly, with a stifled voice that came
As from the inmost caverns of his heart,
Spake the sick King:—

“Philip, my son, lay thou
Thy hand in mine; nay, tremble not; the worst
Is known, the best is in the hands of God;
I vainly wished to pass before my son;
God's will be done; he waits for me in Heaven.”
And Philip said, “He waits.”

Then all the love,
That still had held the holy King to life,
Was melted, and the prince felt heavy tears
Burst on his hand, whose smart in after time
Was more remembered than re-opening wounds.
Again the life-glow sank and left the cheek
Ashy and hollow, and across the eyes
Was woven once again the film of death.
One held the cross before him, the worn hands
Outstretched towards it, and the pallid lips
Moving in prayer.

Meantime without the tent
There reigned a silence sadder than all sounds
Of mourning, such a hush as scarcely breathes
Around the death-bed while the rattle fails
In the dear throat and yet the brow is warm.
For numb with terror of the blow that hung
Over themselves and France and Christendom,
His warriors scarcely felt the mortal bite
Of pestilence, but merged their own full woes
In deeper sorrow; those half-angry prayers
That day and night had still beseigèd Heaven
Were spent like smoke, and in their hearts remained
Only a smothered fire of fierce despair.
Sleepless they hovered round the tent where lay
Their withering hope, and clutched with nervous grasp
Each knight that left it, ere his hand had loosed
The curtain; but at sight of his sad eyes
Fell back with drooping head and tottering knees
To wait for yet another; till at last
Suspense itself grew precious, and none dared
With eager beck or question any more
To tempt the fateful silence.

So the hours
Crawled onward, clogged with woe and weariness.
But now the whisper of the wings of Death
Was heard within the tent; a desperate shock
Braced all the fainting powers, and that strange light
Which seems not of this world, like snow-white heat
Or marble lit with life, was seen to breathe
Through all the wasted features of the King.
And while the watchers bent, with prisoned breath
And hearts whose laboured throbbing seemed a sin,
A hand, through which the night-lamp's tempered glow
Was almost seen, shook beckoning through the gloom
To Philip. Swiftly, softly knelt the son
Beside the couch, and felt the father's touch
Tremble along his brow, compelling forth
The swelling tears that long had ached within;
Then, while his head was deeply bowed, and all
Were kneeling, in a hush so full of grief,
Of fear, of love, of passionate thought, it seemed
A lifetime, once again the rigid lips
Were kindled into speech, which, fainter far
Than midnight's secret, rang within his ears,
Wrought to a thousand-fold in that last hour,
Louder than thunder.

“My belovèd son,
A little space, and all this troubled life
Will be to me no more; the grosser clouds
That wrap about the kingdoms of the world
Are parting, and beyond I see a vast
Of pure tranquillity, where love is light,
The everlasting countenance of God.
There shall we meet, when all our anguish here
Will be remembered only as the joy
Of winning; but as yet it cannot be;
For ere thou come to that eternal peace
Much must thou do and suffer. Thou, my son,
Hast not the liberty of lowlier men
To rest awhile in grief, since the same stroke,
That ends my being, forges thee a crown
Which thou must needs endure. I leave thee king
Of a great people; loyal in their depths,
But tossed upon the face with many a flaw;
Strong with the strength and peril of a storm;
Swift to be thrown, yet swifter to rebound;
Most hard to bridle, but when managed well
Able for any enterprise; bedecked
With every outward charm and subtle grace,
Nor wanting that fine polish which can stand
On sterling metal only; yet most prone,
From very nimbleness of sense and thought,
To dire excess. To such a government
Art thou, my son, now called by Heaven and France,—
A post most sacred and beset with toil,
Which I would render easier, ere I die,
And yet more full of loving-anxious care
Than I, the faultful king, have ever shown,
By these last counsels.

“Before all, my son,
This, without which no effort of thine own,
How pure, how true soe'er, availeth aught;—
Confirm and guard from ill throughout thy realm
The holy tie that binds this world to Heaven
In mystic union: cherish and protect
Its blessèd ministers, that day by day
Their moving prayers may intercede for thee
Before the throne of Wisdom. Above all,
Fear to offend the Majesty of God,
In Whose Eternal Presence earthly kings
Are less than beggars, Whose deep-searching eye
Sees all our worth as sin, sees fear in faith,
Self-love in sacrifice, desire and hate
In courage, and behind our noblest deeds
The arch-fiend Pride. Act ever as if Christ
Stood over thee; so will thine eyes be turned
Not on the good thou dost, not on thyself,
The instrument, no more, but on thy King
Who wrought both it and thee. And seeing that He
Hath taught us, kinsmen though we be of those
That slew Him, how we yet may succour Him,
Give richly to the needy, feed the poor
And serve them at thy table; but beware
Lest, stooping thus, as once thy Master stooped
To wash His servants' feet, thy lightened heart
Be lifted up with saintly vanity;
For there be some, my son, in every age,
Who, toiling for the weal of Publicans,
Are yet the Pharisee.

“When thou art crowned,
Strive to be worthy in thy lightest act
Of that mysterious unction which hath balmed
The head of many a noble ancestor;
Be just in all, nor suffer fear or hope
To turn thee from the perfect path of truth.
If e'er the widow or the fatherless
Contend before thee with a mighty foe,
Be loftier than brute Nature, and incline
Towards the weaker, till the right appear.
If e'er a cause be brought to thee, wherein
Thou hast a heart, lean thou, howe'er it strain
Thy wilful self, toward the opposing side,
Lest that thy counsellors should shrink to speak
Against thy liking, and a sweet-tongued lie
Should breed a court of flatterers. O! beware
Most watchfully of aught that might inflame
The ready fuel of thy warriors' hearts
'Gainst any Christian people; for the fire
Of war once kindled, who can mete its bounds?
And ye are brothers all. But if a day,
Which Heaven keep far, should see thy chivalry
Marshalled of dire necessity to match
Some neighbour nation, be thy chiefest care
The innocent poor, in whom the blast of war
Wakens but terror, seeing that victory
Is bought with their scant bread and glory's sun
Shines not on them. Quench thou the earliest sparks
Of civil strife, and to that end maintain
Well-chosen provosts, whom being wise and just
Thou may'st securely furnish with full power;
But spare not to chastise with iron arm—
For falsehood in high places stinketh most—
The man that walled around with kingly strength
Maketh the sacred fortress of the law
A bandit's hold. Beware of pomp, whose cost
Is ever wrung from out the patient poor;
But rather spend the surplus, that abides
When royal state is fed, on them whose toil
Sustaineth thee. Correct with careful fear
Whate'er is faulty in thy kingdom's laws,
But seek not to molest the ancient rights
Bequeathèd by thy fathers; for the hearts
Of all thy people, using them, are filled
With pious love and worship, as the soul
Of one, that stands and listens in the dusk
Of some great minster, feels the subtle scent
Of bygone years breathe from the wood and stone,
And loveth it and worships; so they feel
Toward their olden charters, and their hearts
Are then most loyal, and thyself most strong,
And all thy foes most helpless. These precepts
Write in thy heart, and may the King of Kings
Fulfil thee with His mercy, love, and truth!

And now, my son, the icy hand of Death
Lies heavy on my bosom, and the voice
That summons to the judgment-hall of God
Rings through the folding darkness. Fare thee well!
Leave me alone, save for these holy men
Whose prayers shall be my escort from this world,
Their chanting in my ears until I hear
The angels chiming on the further shore;
Alone with God. Belovèd, we shall meet—
Thy lips one moment on my brow—sweet son,
Think, when thy heart is boisterous with the wine
New-pressed from out the swelling fruit of life,
When lusty health, or sport, or lofty art,
Or poet's praise, or woman's yielding eyes,
Seem to thee present Heaven, think of this kiss;
And all that makes the riddle of Man's life,
Its ignorance and its cunning, its vast scope,
Its quivering subtleties, its loves and hates,
Its infinite varieties, its wild maze
Of woe and joy, of wealth and poverty,
Its passions, manners, follies, hopes, and fears,
All that bewilders and o'erwhelms thee now,
Shall seem a simple nothing.—Fare thee well!—
Belovèd, succour me with ceaseless prayers
And solemn masses, for the wrath of God
Is even as His mercy, infinite.
With all a father's tenderness I lay
My dying blessing on thee, and beseech
My Lord and thine to guard thee of His grace
From evil, and from aught that may offend
His holy will, and afterward to join
Father to son where we shall see His face,
And love and praise Him everlastingly!”

He ceased; and while the silence shook with sobs
Rose Philip from his knees, and clasping yet
The strengthless hand, and reading on the brow
Death's awful signature, felt all the past
Swell in his heart and overflow his eyes,
And all the future looming through the dark.
“My king!—my father!”—but the dewy front
Knew not love's impress, and the bloodless lips
Were murmuring faint, “Alone—alone—with God.”

Then, like a flood that bursting from a dyke,
Long pent in vain, sweeps headlong, fury-blind,
O'er flower and field and forest, and at last,
Its passion spent, leaves all the ruined plain
A waste of sullen water, even so
Came rushing desolation o'er the soul
Of Philip. Long he stood, the helpless hand
Locked in his grasp, and stared upon the face
That never more would own him; till the touch
Of those that waited with the oil of death
Convulsed him, and with one despairing cry
He turned, and heard the curtain of the tent
Rustle behind him, and “Alone with God”
Blurred by the moaning of the deep, and felt
A myriad cold, small, narrow, eyes look down
From empty vasts of darkness.

But the King
Lay like a saint within his marble shrine,
Peaceful and white and still, his almoners
Chanting in tremulous harmony the prayers
Of Holy Church; and ever and anon
Those thin lips quivered, answering them, and called,
But with an inward voice that scarce might drown
A whisper, like a far-off cry for help,
On good Saint Denis, for their hapless sakes
Who soon would stand unguided. Then the priests,
Marking the shadow of the flight of Death
Steal o'er the heaven-lit face, as shadows cast
By satin-shining clouds glide silently
Athwart a gleaming meadow, raised the king,
More gently than a mother her sick child,
And laid him, following out his last command,
Low on a bed of ashes; softly pressed
The holy wafer 'twixt his senseless lips,
And poured the sacred oil. Without, the sun
Toiled sweating up the morning steep; but when
It blazed triumphant on the peak of noon,
Peaceful, as when a tender-nurtured babe
Wakes from a dreamless sleep, the dying King
Unveiled his eyes, and raising them to Heaven,
Aflame with love and spiritual light,
Cried with the fulness of an angel's voice,—
“Into Thy house, O Lord!—To worship Thee
For ever in Thy holy tabernacle!”—
Then sank and slept, and in the self-same hour
Wherein our Saviour tasted of the gall
And hung for once the head, he passed away.

That very hour, ere yet the weary flood
Was stagnant in the worn-out heart, ere yet
The dew of death was dry upon the brow,
While moans of agony raving through the camp
Made horrid discord with loud-tongued despair
And curses on the prince whose laggard craft
Had wrought their ruin, along the desert shore
Was heard the sound of martial minstrelsy,
And like a mocking laugh the bugle's crow
Shocked through the tent of Death. But not a man
Stirred, not a word of welcome left their lips,
Each hand was clenched, each brow was knit, each foot
Stamped where it stood; and when false Sicily
Rode stumbling over death from tent to tent,
There fell an utter silence, and the camp
Was seen as when the angel of the Lord
Breathed o'er the Syrian host. The unburied dead
Stared helplessly, the dying held their wail,
And they that lived stood fast with folded arms
Like sentinels of stone. With shuddering heart,
Not daring question, the shame-stricken prince
Urged on his frighted charger, whose fine sense
Quaked at the poisonous reek, until he saw
The lily-banner of the royal tent
Droop in the dull air; then he sprang to earth
And loosed the rein; whereat the maddened steed,
With glowing nostril and dilated eye,
Fled neighing from the horror.

But the prince,
Crossing his craven bosom, drew aside
The curtain, and still grasping it beheld
His victim, that one king whom neither pain,
Nor fear, nor love could move to break his troth,
That saint whose faith in Christ was all too rich
For petty victory of poor pride and hate,
Whose charity knew neither East nor West,
But only one vast brotherhood to be,
Low on a bed of ashes. Long he stood
Heart-frozen, staring speechless at the dead,
Until the silver cross upon the breast
Seemed heaving, and the sweet forgiving smile,
Engraven by the master-hand of death,
Seemed not the record of a blameless life
But living welcome; then with one deep sob
He fell upon the earth, and bathed with tears,
Such tears as Judas wept, those quiet feet
That ne'er had trod unhallowed ground, nor shunned
The slippery steep of duty; kissed his robe,
And called him lord and brother; and so lay
Lost in remorse, nor heeded those that stood
Silent, with bowed heads, round about the tent,
Nor marked the swinging censer, nor the priests
Moaning their slow-drawn requiem, nor descried
The fierce light growing in the eyes of one
That watched with head unbowed and bitten lip,
But railed upon his tarrying, cursed aloud
The ears that had not drunk the dying charge
Of earth's best king, and smote upon his breast
With such a hollow clang as well bespoke
The fashion of his sorrow.

Then, as when
A forked flash tears a jaggèd path through heavens
Thick-stuffed with livid cloud, the loosened storm,
That long has muttered distant threats, leaps forth
Shattering all the sultry air, so leapt
Quick passion from the stifled heart of him
That stood unbowed, the dark Count of Champagne.

“It well beseemeth thee, remorseful prince,
To rail upon thyself; thou hast good cause;
For thou hast slowly slain the noblest heart
That ever wore the cross; 'twas bravely done;
And 'tis most brave to wallow weeping there
About his feet. Arise! let fall thy tears
On those meek marble lips—they will not chide,
That never uttered e'en thy name in wrath;
Kiss that victorious brow—it will not heed
The venom. Out upon thy tears, false prince!
Take them where there is yet a dying wretch
To curse thee; offer them for balm; go, slake
His raging throat with gushing penitence;
Or else seek out—thou need'st not wander far—
Some foul untended corpse, and wash it clean
With thy pure tears; maybe the harlot Plague,
Now well-nigh weary of our failing strength,
Will kiss thee too!”

He ceased, and once again,
As, when the storm has crashed its full and fled
Deep-muttering far away, a clearer hush
Succeeds, ere yet the cowering birds dare lift
A timorous note to welcome the keen sun
Bright-glancing through the dripping leaves, e'en so
Fell silence through the tent, the murmuring tones
Of those that echoed wrath grew slowly faint,
And only the low requiem still wailed on,
Like autumn twilight sighing to her rest
Among the withered reeds.

Then rose the prince,
Stood fixed awhile, with shifting eyes downcast,
Tongue-tied as in a nightmare, and so shrank
Crippled with shame and terror from the tent.

But far across the leagues of rosy waves,
The same dear sun that saw the death of Christ,
And hid its crimson face, shed one deep blush
O'er orphaned France, and smote through many a pane,
Dyed with his blood, on many a head that bowed
Low in the vast cathedrals for their king;
Then sank beneath the west, whose shadow passed
O'er meadow, wood and wave, to where he lay,
With all the mystery of this human life
Frozen for ever into one calm smile.