University of Virginia Library

The storming of the village-home of Christ,
The last page of that heavy book of blood,
Scored with the fierce accounts of East and West,
Red with the record of two hundred years
Of valour wasted in the desert sand,
Of sacred passion grovelling down to lust,
Of carnage fathered on the Prince of Peace,
Till, with its last and saddest reckoning writ,
It closed from very weariness of hate.

The holy king lay low within the tent,
Cold on his couch of ashes; nor as yet
Had the swift finger of Corruption soiled
The stainless beauty of that peacefulness
Which smiles behind the rending storm of death.
But all the camp was stricken dumb with woe;
And marking the long silence of their grief,
And knowing not the strength that sorrow lends
To men of finer nerve, the Moslem hordes
Swooped round the tents, like craven birds of prey
That dare not strike the living, shrieking threats
Of chains and torture.

Then those knights of France,
Whom pestilence had spared or lightlier scourged,
Felt all the courage of the patient king
Bound in their veins, and all their love for him
Boil up within their hearts; and since the prince
Lay sick almost to death, they joined the host
Of brave-tongued Sicily, and bad him lead
Their fury to its mark, stifling the smart
Of wounded honour in a common hate.

Thrice rang the hideous music of the war
From bolt and brand, and thrice the yelling throngs
Drew back in screens of dust before the might
Of desperate grief; while he, that should have been
Their heart of fight, lay sheltered from the stroke,
Of sword and sun, deep in the secret shade
Of marble grottoes, drowsing in the lap
Of some fair slave. But when the irksome tale
Of treble rout and close-beleagured walls
Jarred on his sensual dream, the same loose lips,
That two days since had wagged with idle boasts,
Now cried his peace for sale, and sent forthwith
Smooth tonguesters to the conquering host, to be
The chapmen of his honour; not in vain;
For spent with famine, drought, and pestilence,
Heartsick of endless sand and throbbing sky,
And longing for a breath of meadow-breeze,
And children's laughter, and the glad, low voice
Of waiting love, and reft of that strong soul
That kindled all, the champions of the Cross
Spurned their own conquest, and base Sicily,
The slave from first to last of greed and gold,
Bartered his faith for forty thousand crowns.

But ere three suns had blushed upon the deed,
Dim from the ocean's scarcely-curving breast
Arose a full-fledged fleet, whose far grey wings
Grew whiter toward the shore, while first was heard
The cheery English horn, and then the wail
Of bagpipes, like the garrulous monotone
Of Highland streams; and when the steadied ships
Chased the short ripple of the quiet bay
And hailed the shore, a ringing shout of joy
Burst from the host; and eagerly they pressed
Far out into the shallow ebb, and hauled
The grounding boats in welcome to the strand;
And showed all honour to that English prince,
That nobler nephew of the Lion-heart,
Whose boyhood had upheld the tottering throne
Of our third Henry, whose majestic brain,
Stout as his arm, rough-hewed this Kingdom's shape
And stamped it with his image. Grand he stood
Upon the barren shore, his mighty bust
Towering above the crowd, his royal brow
Close-knit with strength, and his bright wealth of hair
Shaming his helmet's glitter;—the first prince
Whose Norman breast swelled with an English heart
And bore it through in triumph.

But a storm
Of sullen wrath, like that which swept the face
Of Ilion's terror, darkened his fair front,
Hearing the shameful story of the peace;
And hurling down one glance of utter scorn
On Sicily, he muttered 'twixt his teeth:—
“God's blood! 'twas not to sell the sword of Christ
I took His Cross upon me, not to play
The huckster with a Moslem dog!—My lord,
I swear by him who lies 'neath yonder pall,
Deaf to this outrage, that a day shall dawn
When Syria shall repent this haggled truce;
And you—go hug your gold—your better part—
And buy your own peace as your conscience will,
And prate away the cause of Christendom,
But spare me from your councils!”

So he turned,
And sharply drew the curtain of the tent,
While those around stood staring at the spot
Where late he stood, as if the earth should gape
To swallow them; and spake no word, but slunk
Like beaten curs away; and the stale plain
Seemed yet more hateful to their shame-sick eyes,
And the bare sky more brazen, and the East
A burden, and the Cross a thing of naught.

And all those months of patience unto death
Were spent in vain; unless there be no waste
In Earth's profuse economy, but all
Which seems to us most prodigal, the frost
That nips the opening bud, the blight that spoils
The full-blown flower, the mildew that devours
The garnered fruit, the worm within the heart
Of young life flushed with promise, loss and wreck,
Hunger and pain and death, yea, sin itself,
Have each some saving office and promote,
Somehow, somewhere, the good they seem to blast.

Not with that blessed weariness which crowns
A duty hardly done and leaves the soul
No taste for meaner pleasure, but with hearts
Benumbed with failure, sailed the knights of France
From that loathed coast. But when the welcome shore
Of Sicily now beckoned through the mist,
And Tunis with her load of woe and shame
Was lost in thoughts of home, the heavens, whose smile
Had ever mocked their course, threw off the mask
Of favour and arrayed themselves in wrath;
The sky grew one black scowl, the sea one plain
Of billowy lead, while far away the storm
Muttered its stuttering threats; and ere the fleet
Could reach the paling harbour, all the trumps
Of Heaven spake forth, and all its muffled drums
Rolled long reverberations o'er the deep;
The lightnings tore the purple clouds in twain,
The wild white horses reared aloft and flung
Their windy manes against the lowering rack,
And the doomed ships now reeled upon the ridge
Of the huge wave, now dived adown the slope,
And now were hidden in the gulf that yawned
Betwixt the watery mountains; the strong masts
Were bent like reeds and snapped their whistling shrouds,
The sails flew loose in tatters, and the boards
Groaned with the buffets of the demon sea;
And eighteen gallant ships that night went down,
And twice two thousand hearts that wore the Cross
Lay still beneath the tempest.

But the bark
That bore the sacred ashes of the king
Drave safe to port; and with the flare of morn
Drifted the shattered remnant of the fleet
Through tangled wreckage onward to the land;
And when the stricken prince had somewhat won
Of strength, and tidings of his kingdom's grief
Ached in his ear, he bad his fretful knights
Meet Sicily and England round his couch,
To mingle counsel, ere they sought their homes,
How best the withered laurels of the Cross
Might be refreshed. Then, when the tongues of all
Clamoured for rest and darted hints of hate
At him who wrought their ruin, a sudden wave
Of generous passion heaved proud Edward's breast,
And like a lion's growl above the din
Of meaner beasts his accents shook the air:—

“For shame, my lords!—think ye to heal your hurts,
Or win again the honour ye have lost,
By vain upbraidings of your host?—For shame!—
The past is dead, and let your ill-timed rage
Die with it; but the future yet remains
To pile the inglorious grave of what is done
With such a monument of gallant acts
As shall for ever hide it from the eyes
Of after men. Here will we rest awhile,
To weld in one the fragments of our strength,
And dip the half-extinguished torch of zeal
In fire of holy purpose; then let him
Whose sword hath still an edge, whose lance a point,
Whose seasoned manhood is not wholly warped
By sun and storm, whose faithful heart yet throbs
With the remembrance of a hero-king,
Follow my banner, and wreak out his wrath
Where wrath avails.—Your hands, my lords; your hands!—
God's death!—not one?—Then hear me while I swear.
By the Lord's blood, though all my countymen,
The lusty hearts of my dear island-realm,
Should here desert me, yet will I, alone
With Fowin, keeper of my palfrey, fare
To Palestine, there to require the blood
Of him whose selfless courage made my sword
Leap from its sheath for this—aye, and the blood
Of every Christian warrior that now lies
Rotting at Tunis; I will rouse to arms
The soldier-monks, and for each costly drop
That dyed the Carthage sand will have a life;
And he, your king, shall be as that dread corpse,
Whose bulk thrice-quartered spread the word of war
Through Israel's tribes; and ye shall sit at home,
Telling your scars, if any be to tell,
Chewing the cud of indolent content,
While deeds of wonder ringing through the world
Proclaim you traitors to the cause of Christ!”
He ceased; and sullen-cowering 'neath the lash
Of those indignant words the bolder bloods
Snarled angry vindication, and made oath
Four summers thence to waste God's chosen East
With fire and sword; and kept not one his faith,
But bearing their lost leader to his rest
Buried his longings with him, and forgat
Their oath, and held the honour of the Cross
A distant toil to heighten present ease.

Not so firm England's prince. For when the woods,
That hid the castles, where the lords of France
Lay toying with light Peace, were filled with green,
And children wandered o'er the English fields
With warm hands full of drooping woodland flowers,
The sails of Edward, swelling towards the shore,
Sent rapture through the hearts of those that watched
From Acre's walls, and terror to the breast
Of him who couched, like some strong beast of prey,
Patient for blood, without the city gates—
The fell Bibars, chief foeman of the Cross;
Who tarried not to brave the lion's brood,
But trembling at the memory of that king,
Whose name quick-whispered by the Moslem nurse
Would still her peevish child, drew off his host,
While the freed city reeled with joy and flung
Its barred gates wide in welcome.

Yet the prince
Loosed not, as men are wont, good Fortune's hand
To bask him in the memory of her smile,
But grasped it hard and followed where she led.
For thrice ten days he scoured the country round,
Learning its meanest dell; for thrice ten days
The cloister-knights of Palestine spurred in,
Hot from pursuit, to fight beneath his flag.
Then, when the scanty thousand of his own
Were seven-fold swelled by these, he marshalled all
Before him, and his manly bass rang out
Beyond the farthest listener:—

“My brave lords,
True knights, and fellow-soldiers of the Cross,
Bethink ye well or e'er ye plight your troth
To this our desperate business; for we stand
A handful 'gainst a host; so Gideon stood;
And so, like him, I bid that man begone
Who holdeth not his ease, his wealth, his life,
All but his honour, cheap, all but his God.
I and the remnant have a thing to do
That never half-hearts wrought. There lies, my lords,
Ten barren leagues from hence, a little town,
Where the great Master left His throne in Heaven
To bear the yoke of childhood; where the fount
Still darkens deep, wherein He stooping saw
His Godhead's image, and the very stones
That knew the pressure of His blessèd feet
Are yet uncrumbled. There the Moslem walks,
And dogs of heathen vomit forth His name
With bestial loathing of its sacredness,
And pagan hags give suck to pagan spawn
Within those very walls where once High God
Lay sleeping on the Maiden Mother's breast.
There shall ye see Her church, the fairest fane
That bore the Cross in Palestine, a heap
Of trampled ashes, and the crescent-flag
Flaunting above its ruins. Sirs, how long
Shall this endure? Ye know the dead Saint-king,
When late-delivered from the Sultan's chains,
And all aglow with gratitude to God,
Took up the pilgrim-staff, and unesquired,
Save for his trusty seneschal, did bend
His painful footsteps toward the home of Christ.
Thus did the king in lowly guise; but we,
Who, reverencing the white heat of his zeal,
Yet lack his tender saintliness, will make
Our pilgrimage according to our faith,
Not clad in weeds of meekness, but begirt
With the swift sword of vengeance; that the doom
Of Nazareth may re-echo to the doom
Of that beleagured city which the Lord
Gave into Joshua's hand, and not a tongue,
The quavering voice of age, the liquid tones
Of woman, nor the lisping of a child,
Be left to tell its tale.”

Thus spake the prince;
And all the army, heartened by his words,
Rang with acclaim. So when the great sun sank
A blood-red dome whereto a path of blood
Ran o'er the purple deep, and the moon rose
A blood-red dome above the sandy verge,
They left the cooling city and all night
Marched through the mellow silence, till broad day
Smote fierce upon their mail and laid them low
Beneath the shadow of a stooping rock;
But when the monarch of the sky had left
His kingdom to the stars, and a cool breeze,
From seaward woke fresh vigour in their limbs,
They took again their way; and when the moon
Had floated far above the mists that swelled
Her golden fulness, and rode high in Heaven
A dwindling disc of silver, and the night
Seemed like a solemn day, so clear, so still,
They reached the opening of a narrow glen,
That winding clove a barrier of grey rock.
Its walls were clad with many a twisted growth
Of fig and olive, and the cedar stretched
Its level arms and layers of dusky green
Far o'er the vale; the oleander slept
A tower of rosy fragrance, and the path
Was fringed with fiery poppies quenched in night,
And folded wind-flowers, whose bright-blended hues
Of purple, white, and scarlet, glistened dim
Amid the moonbeams; while the air was faint
With perfume of rich hyacinths, somewhere spread,
Like to a fallen sky, beneath the trees
Whose gloom now hid them.

Onward through the shade
For half a league they marched, and not a sound
Vexed earth's deep slumber, save the measured tread
Of their own steps, or rustle of the leaves
When some bright bird broke from his dewy bower,
And down the valley with a startled cry
Flew to a deeper shelter. But the walls
Of riven limestone glimmering to the stars
Grew ever wider parted, till they made
A sloping circle, like the storm-worn wreck
Of some great amphitheatre; and midway
Adown the slope, and nestling to the plain,
Asleep beneath the breathing moonlight, lay
The village-home of Christ.

O ye, who deem
The din of cities better than the hush
Of the bare hills, the pomp of painted roofs
More glorious than the starry vault of Heaven,
The strife of factions sweeter than the song
Of woodland birds, the raiment of a king
More lovely than the lily, and the roar
Of nations greater than the still small voice;
Ponder it well, or e'er your ears grow deaf
To God's deep music, that earth's strongest soul,
Who best hath known to cope with pain, and grief,
And shame, and sin, Who best hath held His way
Unflinching through the tempest of the world,
Most nobly wrestled with the powers of Hell,
And looked most calmly in the face of Death,
Drew His vast might, not from the turbid flow
Of crowded streets, but those pure influences
Which spring from star and bird and wayside flower.

Folded in sleep the holy village lay,
Unconscious of its doom; as in the depths
Of some entangled wild a gentle fawn
Sleeps, resting on its mother's dappled neck,
Nor sees the panther couching for the leap.
The narrow streets were hushed, and softly laid
With strips of moonlight; on the white house-tops
The doves slept side by side; and low within
The simple dwellings many a weary form
Lay dreaming its last dream; the infant's hand,
That fell asleep dimpling the soft brown breast
It could not clasp, drooped o'er it sweetly curled;
The mother's fondling arm had loosed its hold,
And fallen, a lovely curve, beside the babe;
And the faint whisper of their peaceful breath,
And the warm heaving of their bosoms, made
Unbroken music; e'en the father's brow,
Scarred with the early hardships of the poor,
Was smoothed by Slumber's tender-nursing hand;
Yet once he turned and started, as the neigh
Of a far war-horse broke the crystal hush;
But the swift weaver Thought, to lull his fear,
Wove from that sudden sound a subtle dream,
And half-aroused he shed a tender smile
Upon his loved ones, and again he slept.

But ere that moon went down, he lay half-dead
Beside the outraged body of his wife,
Beside the butchered body of his child,
And clasping still the household axe wherewith
He dearly sold their lives; and while the blood
Throbbed struggling from his heart, and while his eyes
Gazed fiercely-fondly on his ruined home,
He heard the iron voice of Edward ring
Above the shrieks of maids, the groans of men,
“Slay, slay, and spare not! 'tis the cause of Christ!
Slay all—their wives, their babes, their very beasts!
Slay on, slay on!” and staggering to his feet
He gasped a hideous laugh, and vented forth
A moan that shook the last wild flicker out,
And falling back upon his mangled child
Hissed through his teeth, “A curse upon their Christ!”

And never, since the innocent eyes of Morn
Shrank from the first foul murder, rose the sun
Upon a sadder sight. Christ's simple home,
The chosen dwelling of the Son of Man,
Steeped in man's helpless blood; pure women slain
And outraged in the name of Him Who spake
Compassion to the harlot; tender babes
Strangled and quartered for His sake Who bad
All men be mild as they; black pools of gore
Blotting those streets, wherein His faultless feet
Did pace for thirty years the lovely path
Of meekness and divine obedience;
Blood in the fountain where His thirst was quenched,
Blood on the lilies that He loved so well
And dowered with the pearl of all His words,
Blood on the matted fleeces of His lambs,
Blood on the ruffled bosoms of His doves,
And all for Him Who is the Prince of Peace
O God!—we fools of pride and lust and hate!
Tyrants and slaves of ignorance!—We stand
Alone within the darkness, and put out
Each man his fellow's dimly-flickering light,
And think our own the one pure ray from Heaven;
We gird us with the sword of self-esteem,
Call it the sword of faith, and so hew down
Our brother's hard-wrought idol, while we boast
Our own an image of the Most High God;
We rear fair altars to the Lord of Love,
And every temple is a hold of hate
Besieged with angry tongues; we sign our babes
With the deep symbol of self-sacrifice,
And still the strong wage war upon the weak,
And the wide world is bathed in harmless blood,
And Time is sick of carnage. What avails
That rack and boot and thumbscrew rust away,
Lost in the hideous lumber of the past;
That never more the reek of human flesh
Blackens the open forehead of the day;
That no young victim, whiter than her shroud,
With bloodshot eyes fixed wildly upon naught,
The funeral-candle trembling in her hand,
Totters between the ranks of austere priests,
Beneath the shadow of the crucifix,
On to her living grave?—The same foul fiend
Still lives, but mantled in a subtler garb,
Not striking with the sudden hand of force,
But slowly slaying with the little stings
Of rancour and the blight of social scorn;
Whilst one by one the beacon-fires of old,
Whereby our fathers steered, faint out and leave
The darkness closer, and no pilot's voice
Rings through the gathering storms, and no new light
Flashes across the bosom of the deep.

Nor need we any; for those bright lights of old,
That seemed to man's young eyes reflected beams
From some far heaven, were but the first grey streaks
Of that slow dawn now widening through the world,
Whose sun is man himself; and the same fire,
Whose quick flame leapt to life in the warm heart
Of Eastern sage and prophet, burneth still,
But kindling through a thousand thousand souls
Where then it lit but one.—What need of light?—
There glows within the breast of every man,
However smothered by the fogs of sin,
The light that never yet hath led astray,
The light that was in Christ, the light of love.

Take up the burden of humanity,
The changeless load of sorrow, pain, and death;
Thy father bore it, and thy children's children
Shall stoop beneath its weight; not Christ Himself
Can lift it from Thy shoulder; murmur not;
For all thy woe but quickens that keen sense
Of others' sorrow which is woe's best balm;
And the black void which deepens round the world
But swells the radiance of the lamp of love,
Makes soul seek soul in livelier sympathy,
As children cling together in the dark,
And lightens each one's burden by the help
Of all that bear it.

But for pity's sake
Lay not upon thy brother's bowèd neck
The yoke of persecution; goad him not
With the fine point of scorn to loathe thy face;
For love once quenched, no other light remains,
But all is utter darkness, and the pain
Of hate hath no consoler. Yet take heart;
For the Eternal Power, Who sowed the seed
Of all things, hath ordained that hate shall tire,
And love grow ever stronger.

So the strife
Which sprang from the fierce hate of East and West,
And fed itself on hate, grew sick at last
Of that which lent it life; and those wild swords,
Whose ruthless frenzy, for two hundred years,
Wounded the Spirit of the living Christ
To win His tomb, were sheathed for evermore
Amid the ruins of His childhood's home.
For the same blow, whose venom well-nigh stilled
The savage heart of Edward, when he turned,
Flushed with unnatural pride, to rest again
His fever-stricken men within the walls
Of sea-fanned Acre, was the death-stroke dealt
To this, the last Crusade.

And we, who stand
Through others' toil upon a loftier height,
And see the little realms of human creed
Spread like a map beneath the voiceless sky,
Marvel at that hard pride, which made one faith
The measure of the universe, and strove
To war it through all nations in the name
Of Him Who laid His curse upon the sword.
And yet, so potent is the growth of good,
That not the rankest poison-weeds of Sin
Can wholly choke it; and the very chains,
That bigots forged to fetter bigot foes,
Bound East to West in ever-strengthening ties
Of mutual helpfulness, that shall not snap
Till all the world be grafted in one growth,
And one full tide of ever-swelling love
Flow in the hearts of all men.

For Christ lives
Lives in despite of them who made “Christ lives”
The battle-cry of hatred, and still make;
Lives in the happy hearts of trustful babes,
Lives in the patient souls of simple maids,
Lives in the wider, gentler minds of men,
And shall not die till love be known no more.