 | England |  |
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THOMAS A BECKET WAS SLAIN 1171.
“Gilbert, the father of Thomas á Becket, making an expedition to the Holy
Land, was, with his only attendant, Richard, made a prisoner by a Mussulman
Emir. This man's daughter they were sometimes permitted to see.
She asked him about his religion, and whether he was ready to risk his life
for his God. “To die,” he answered. “Then,” said she, “let us escape
together.” He could not refuse, but either his courage left him, or the
attempt failed, and he escaped with bolder companions. She afterwards
broke her prison; and by the repetition of the word “London,” found her
way marvellously, by sea and land, to that city, where she had no other
resource than crying through the streets “Gilbert,” the name of the man she
loved—the only European word besides “London” with which the solitary
Syrian damsel was acquainted. After many adventures, she was at length
recognized by the servant of her lover, Richard—baptized by the royal
name of Matilda—was married to her Gilbert, and became the mother of
Thomas á Becket.” Need it be marvelled that so much of energy, enterprise,
and ambition actuated Thomas à Becket, the son of love, wonder, and
romance.—This account taken from John of Brompton.
Were it for nought beside, he should have name,
Because of her whose blood enrich'd his own—
That lovely damsel, whose first deed was fame,
And whose sweet after-life was all divine.
The burning sunbeams on her brow would shine;
Her lonely wail the Syrian deserts hear;
The withering simoon saw her sweet shape pine;
The cold dews wet her; and the tempests drear
Smote her dear limbs, convuls'd with agony and fear.
Because of her whose blood enrich'd his own—
That lovely damsel, whose first deed was fame,
And whose sweet after-life was all divine.
The burning sunbeams on her brow would shine;
Her lonely wail the Syrian deserts hear;
The withering simoon saw her sweet shape pine;
The cold dews wet her; and the tempests drear
Smote her dear limbs, convuls'd with agony and fear.
The sacred places of old Time she knew,
Where Battle's hot feet prest; where cities lay
Beneath the desert sands: still she was true
To Love's high precepts, and held on her way,
Though savage beasts, and the waves' savage play,
And roaring winds, and poverty and pain—
All mortal ills, that ever meet the day,
Came near; one only passion fill'd her brain—
The spotless dream of love—the white without a stain.
Where Battle's hot feet prest; where cities lay
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To Love's high precepts, and held on her way,
Though savage beasts, and the waves' savage play,
And roaring winds, and poverty and pain—
All mortal ills, that ever meet the day,
Came near; one only passion fill'd her brain—
The spotless dream of love—the white without a stain.
The Lybian maidens heard her love-sick plaint,
And tended her, and brought her gentle cheer,
And comforted her soul. Where'er she went,
By wood and stream, high rock, and lonely mere,
Their sweet inhabitants in love came near.
The winds wail'd deeply at her bitter woe;
The Atlantic waves did bow them down in fear;
Thus, fair and loving Biblis, long ago,
To feed her fatal love, crost Xanthus' silver flow.
And tended her, and brought her gentle cheer,
And comforted her soul. Where'er she went,
By wood and stream, high rock, and lonely mere,
Their sweet inhabitants in love came near.
The winds wail'd deeply at her bitter woe;
The Atlantic waves did bow them down in fear;
Thus, fair and loving Biblis, long ago,
To feed her fatal love, crost Xanthus' silver flow.
And royal glee was thine—and thou wert great!
The centre-throned mountains, towering high,
And kings o'er time and death, on thee did wait,
And were thy slaves: the storms that travell'd by
Did kiss thy hair: thy eagle-glancing eye
View'd giant rivers roll, in pride, along,
Through vales that own'd their sov'ran majesty.
The mountain forest-trees did pour their song,
And thou wert queen and bride o'er all the mighty throng.
The centre-throned mountains, towering high,
And kings o'er time and death, on thee did wait,
And were thy slaves: the storms that travell'd by
Did kiss thy hair: thy eagle-glancing eye
View'd giant rivers roll, in pride, along,
Through vales that own'd their sov'ran majesty.
The mountain forest-trees did pour their song,
And thou wert queen and bride o'er all the mighty throng.
Where, in the far untravell'd solitude,
The unchained eagle desolately dies,
And where the sov'ran lion loves to brood,
In sounding caves, remote from human eyes;
Where ghastly forests shriek unto the skies;
And is no flower, nor herb, nor healthful tree,
Nor pleasant streams, nor unseen minstrelsies,
Nor house, nor human face, nor law's decree,
The lonely, lovely maid, still wander'd desolately.
The unchained eagle desolately dies,
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In sounding caves, remote from human eyes;
Where ghastly forests shriek unto the skies;
And is no flower, nor herb, nor healthful tree,
Nor pleasant streams, nor unseen minstrelsies,
Nor house, nor human face, nor law's decree,
The lonely, lovely maid, still wander'd desolately.
And there were none to heed her! She might weep
The tear-drops from her brain; and she might pine
With sullen sighs and groans; and she might sleep
Under the tiger's roar, and rest the shine
Of her dark locks on cliffs, who was divine!
Yet none did heed her. Love, and joy, and fear,
Grief, hope, and passion—all that intertwine
Their tints with daily life, were hers to bear
Alone, unheard, unpitied,—none to love her near.
The tear-drops from her brain; and she might pine
With sullen sighs and groans; and she might sleep
Under the tiger's roar, and rest the shine
Of her dark locks on cliffs, who was divine!
Yet none did heed her. Love, and joy, and fear,
Grief, hope, and passion—all that intertwine
Their tints with daily life, were hers to bear
Alone, unheard, unpitied,—none to love her near.
What if she died in these lone places, far
From help? would not the horrid carrion crow
Leap from his hollow throned cliff afar,
And tear her eyes, and hair, and breast, and brow?
The burning tempests scorch her limbs of snow,
And bare her skeleton with hungry hate,
That white as the white desert sands would shew?
Each moment Death may ride the storms, and wait,
And none to close her eyes,—forlorn and desolate!
From help? would not the horrid carrion crow
Leap from his hollow throned cliff afar,
And tear her eyes, and hair, and breast, and brow?
The burning tempests scorch her limbs of snow,
And bare her skeleton with hungry hate,
That white as the white desert sands would shew?
Each moment Death may ride the storms, and wait,
And none to close her eyes,—forlorn and desolate!
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And this was Becket's mother. She had come
Alone, a Syrian maid, her love to seek,
Forsaking kin, and the sweet joys of home.
“London!” she cried, with a heart fit to break—
“London”—through unknown lands, a woman weak:
And “London” brought her over hill and dale,
And o'er the wave—the sole word she could speak:
Nor unregarded was her mournful tale;
And London shelter'd her from every angry gale.
Alone, a Syrian maid, her love to seek,
Forsaking kin, and the sweet joys of home.
“London!” she cried, with a heart fit to break—
“London”—through unknown lands, a woman weak:
And “London” brought her over hill and dale,
And o'er the wave—the sole word she could speak:
Nor unregarded was her mournful tale;
And London shelter'd her from every angry gale.
Mother of him who plac'd in England's crown
The poison'd thorn, and rear'd the standard high,
Of Papal pride, above his monarch's throne;
Who, swollen and fat, with rank idolatry,
Bearded the nation—mock'd the nation's cry
With curses and anathemas from Rome.
Woe unto England! Antichrist was nigh—
Our fields were eat with locusts—o'er each home,
Once happy, did the wolf and Papal tiger roam!
The poison'd thorn, and rear'd the standard high,
Of Papal pride, above his monarch's throne;
Who, swollen and fat, with rank idolatry,
Bearded the nation—mock'd the nation's cry
With curses and anathemas from Rome.
Woe unto England! Antichrist was nigh—
Our fields were eat with locusts—o'er each home,
Once happy, did the wolf and Papal tiger roam!
The fertile fields, from Tees unto the Tyne,
Were burnt—the grass, corn, houses, each and all;
Fire, hunger, desolation, did combine
To do their worst, and drive, from hut and hall,
Rich, poor, and young, and old. In vain they call
Aloud for help. Death shakes his fiery head,
And famine starteth from the castle wall,
'Till even on human flesh the wretches fed,
Amid the burning wastes, where lay the unburied dead.
Were burnt—the grass, corn, houses, each and all;
Fire, hunger, desolation, did combine
To do their worst, and drive, from hut and hall,
Rich, poor, and young, and old. In vain they call
Aloud for help. Death shakes his fiery head,
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'Till even on human flesh the wretches fed,
Amid the burning wastes, where lay the unburied dead.
The people had no name: trampled and worn
With all extortions, they were tame and poor;
Their richest lands were gone; their gold was torn
Away the church's gentle prayers to lure.
Where woods and fields bloom'd fairest, there, be sure,
Some stately abbey rear'd its impious head:
All wrong and tyranny they did endure—
Spurn'd by the ruffians whom their heart's-blood fed,
Till all Old England's pride had faded and was dead.
With all extortions, they were tame and poor;
Their richest lands were gone; their gold was torn
Away the church's gentle prayers to lure.
Where woods and fields bloom'd fairest, there, be sure,
Some stately abbey rear'd its impious head:
All wrong and tyranny they did endure—
Spurn'd by the ruffians whom their heart's-blood fed,
Till all Old England's pride had faded and was dead.
Each stone of these strong fabrics we admire,
Baronial, or with cloisters running wide;
Tower, fortress, pillar, window, arch and spire,
Were dyed with blood from out a people's side.
Thousands of slaves were lash'd to feed the pride
Of bloated power!—Majestic stands each pile;
But when we think what multitudes have dy'd
The stones with blood—what sorrow fill'd the isle
To rear those baubles up—we can no longer smile.
Baronial, or with cloisters running wide;
Tower, fortress, pillar, window, arch and spire,
Were dyed with blood from out a people's side.
Thousands of slaves were lash'd to feed the pride
Of bloated power!—Majestic stands each pile;
But when we think what multitudes have dy'd
The stones with blood—what sorrow fill'd the isle
To rear those baubles up—we can no longer smile.
We have no joy or pride, though t'ward the sun
These towers ascend, and meet his ling'ring ray.
The moon, the stars, and all night's glories run
Around them, but in pain. The light of day
Lies ghastly on the tombs: the winds that play
Among the arches, breathe a woeful tone:
The owl that hoots where Monks were wont to pray—
The trailing plants—the flowers that bloom alone—
All mourn the blood and tears that moisten every stone.
These towers ascend, and meet his ling'ring ray.
The moon, the stars, and all night's glories run
Around them, but in pain. The light of day
Lies ghastly on the tombs: the winds that play
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The owl that hoots where Monks were wont to pray—
The trailing plants—the flowers that bloom alone—
All mourn the blood and tears that moisten every stone.
Blood-stain'd the snowy altar, and the white
Of marble tombstones; and the book of prayer:
Thus sinks ambition in the shades of night—
Thus fade its dreams upon the hungry air;
All men unite to hunt it to its lair.
It is a wolf 'mong lambs—a vulture keen
'Mong gentle doves; 'tis foul where all is fair;
A midnight cloud upon the heavens serene,
And hatred hunts its steps wherever it is seen.
Of marble tombstones; and the book of prayer:
Thus sinks ambition in the shades of night—
Thus fade its dreams upon the hungry air;
All men unite to hunt it to its lair.
It is a wolf 'mong lambs—a vulture keen
'Mong gentle doves; 'tis foul where all is fair;
A midnight cloud upon the heavens serene,
And hatred hunts its steps wherever it is seen.
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