Chapter LXI: Part III

The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew,
The arrows flashed like flame,
As spur in side, and spear in rest,
Against the foe we came.

And many a bearded Saracen
Went down, both horse and man;
For through their ranks we rode like corn,
So furiously we ran!

But in behind our path they closed,
Though fain to let us through,
For they were forty thousand men,
And we were wondrous few.

We might not see a lance’s length,
So dense was their array,
But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade
Still held them hard at bay.

“Make in! make in!” Lord Douglas cried--
“Make in, my brethren dear!
Sir William of Saint Clair is down;
We may not leave him here!”

But thicker, thicker grew the swarm,
And sharper shot the rain,
And the horses reared amid the press,
But they would not charge again.

“Now Jesu help thee,” said Lord James,
“Thou kind and true Saint Clair!
An’ if I may not bring thee off,
I’ll die beside thee there!”

Then in his stirrups up he stood,
So lionlike and bold,
And held the precious Heart aloft
All in its case of gold.

He flung it from him, far ahead,
And never spake he more,
But--“Pass thee first, thou dauntless Heart,
As thou wert wont of yore!”

The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,
And heavier still the stour,
Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
And swept away the Moor.

“Now praised be God, the day is won!
They fly o’er flood and fell--
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
Good Knight, that fought so well?”

“Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!” he said,
“And leave the dead to me,
For I must keep the dreariest watch
That ever I shall dree!

“There lies, above his master’s Heart,
The Douglas, stark and grim;
And woe is me I should be here,
Not side by side with him!”

The King he lighted from his horse,
He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.

“God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!
That fought so well for Spain;
I’d rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!”

We bore the good Lord James away,
And the priceless Heart we bore,
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.

No welcome greeted our return,
Nor clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death
Before the mighty dead.

We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,
The Heart in fair Melrose;
And woeful men were we that day--
God grant their souls repose!

_William Edmondstoune Aytoun. (Condensed)_

BARCLAY OF URY

Up the streets of Aberdeen,
By the kirk and college green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;
Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving-girl,
Prompt to please her master;
And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury’s gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet, with calm and stately mien,
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;
And, to all he saw and heard,
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging,
Bits and bridles sharply ringing,
Loose and free and froward;
Quoth the foremost, “Ride him down!
Push him! prick him! through the town
Drive the Quaker coward!”

But from out the thickening crowd
Cried a sudden voice and loud;
“Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!”
And the old man at his side
Saw a comrade, battle-tried,
Scarred and sunburned darkly,

Who with ready weapon bare,
Fronting to the troopers there,
Cried aloud: “God save us!
Call ye coward him who stood
Ankle deep in Lützen’s blood,
With the brave Gustavus?”

“Nay, I do not need thy sword,
Comrade mine,” said Ury’s lord;
“Put it up, I pray thee:
Passive to His holy will,
Trust I in my Master still,
Even though He slay me.

“Pledges of thy love and faith,
Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed.”
Marvelled much that henchman bold,
That his Laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.

“Woe’s the day!” he sadly said,
With a slowly shaking head,
And a look of pity;
“Ury’s honest lord reviled,
Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!

“Speak the word, and, master mine,
As we charged on Tilly’s line,
And his Walloon lancers,
Smiting thro’ their midst we’ll teach
Civil look and decent speech
To these boyish prancers!”

“Marvel not, mine ancient friend,
Like beginning, like the end,”
Quoth the Laird of Ury;
“Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?

“Give me joy that in His name,
I can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;
While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?

“Happier I, with loss of all,
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,
With few friends to greet me,
Than when reeve and squire were seen,
Riding out from Aberdeen,
With bared heads to meet me.

“When each goodwife, o’er and o’er,
Blessed me as I passed her door;
And the snooded daughter,
Through her casement glancing down,
Smiled on him who bore renown
From red fields of slaughter.

“Hard to feel the stranger’s scoff,
Hard the old friend’s falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving;
But the Lord His own rewards,
And His love with theirs accords,
Warm and fresh and living.

“Through this dark and stormy night
Faith beholds a feeble light,
Up the blackness streaking;
Knowing God’s own time is best,
In a patient hope I rest
For the full day-breaking!”

So the Laird of Ury said,
Turning slow his horse’s head,
Towards the Tolbooth prison,
Where through iron gates he heard
Poor disciples of the Word
Preach of Christ arisen!

Not in vain, Confessor old,
Unto us the tale is told
Of thy day of trial;
Every age on him who strays
From its broad and beaten ways
Pours its seven-fold vial.

Happy he whose inward ear
Angel comfortings can hear,
O’er the rabble’s laughter;
And while Hatred’s fagots burn,
Glimpses through the smoke discern
Of the good hereafter.

Knowing this, that never yet
Share of Truth was vainly set
In the world’s wide fallow;
After hands shall sow the seed,
After hands from hill and mead
Reap the harvests yellow.

Thus, with somewhat of the Seer,
Must the moral pioneer
From the future borrow;
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain,
And, on midnight’s sky of rain,
Paint the golden morrow!

_John Greenleaf Whittier_

THE TOUCHSTONE

A Man there came, whence none could tell,
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand,
And testing all things in the land
By its unerring spell.

A thousand transformations rose
From fair to foul, from foul to fair;
The golden crown he did not spare,
Nor scorn the beggar’s clothes.

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much,
Were many changed to chips and clods;
And even statues of the gods
Crumbled beneath its touch.

Then angrily the people cried,
“The loss outweighs the profit far;
Our goods suffice us as they are:
We will not have them tried.”

And, since they could not so avail
To check his unrelenting quest,
They seized him, saying, “Let him test
How real is our jail!”

But though they slew him with the sword,
And in a fire his Touchstone burned,
Its doings could not be o’erturned,
Its undoings restored.

And when to stop all future harm,
They strewed its ashes on the breeze,
They little guessed each grain of these,
Conveyed the perfect charm.

_William Allingham_

SIR GALAHAD

(_The Quest of the Holy Grail_)

My good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splintered spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel;
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies’ hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favours fall!
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall;
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine,
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden’s hand in mine.
More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill;
So keep I fair thro’ faith and prayer,
A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns.
Then by some secret shrine I ride;
I hear a voice, but none are there;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chaunts resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark.
I leap on board; no helmsman steers;
I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three Angels bear the Holy Grail;
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides, the glory slides,
And starlike mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne
Thro’ dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail
But o’er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o’er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden Knight--to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of Heaven
That often meet me here.
I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose odours haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an Angel’s hand,
This mortal armour that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touched, are turned to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro’ the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear;
“O just and faithful Knight of God!
Ride on! the prize is near.”
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-armed I ride, whate’er betide,
Until I find the Holy Grail.

_Alfred, Lord Tennyson_

PILGRIMAGE

Give me my Scallop-shell of Quiet,
My Staff of Faith to walk upon;
My Scrip of Joy, immortal diet;
My Bottle of Salvation.
My Gown of Glory, (Hope’s true Gage)
And thus I’ll take my Pilgrimage.

Blood must be my Bodie’s only Balmer,
Whilst my Soul like a quiet Palmer,
Travelleth towards the Land of Heaven,
No other Balm will there be given.

Over the Silver Mountains,
Where spring the Nectar Fountains,
There will I kiss the Bowl of Bliss,
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken Hill.
My Soul will be a-dry before,
But after, it will thirst no more.
I’ll take them first, to quench my Thirst,
And taste of Nectar’s Suckets,
At those clear Wells
Where Sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by Saints in crystal buckets.

More peaceful Pilgrims I shall see,
That have cast off their Rags of Clay,
And walk apparelled fresh like me,
And when our Bodies and all we
Are filled with Immortality,
Then the blessed Parts we’ll travel,
Strowed with Rubies thick as Gravel,
Ceilings of Diamonds, Saphire Flowers,
High Walls of Coral, and pearly Bowers.

From thence to Heaven’s bribeless Hall,
Where no corrupted Voices brawl,
No Cause deferred, no vain spent Journey,
For there _Christ_ is the King’s Attorney,
Who pleads for all without Degrees,
And He hath Angels, but no Fees.

And this is mine eternal Plea,
To Him that made Heaven, Earth and Sea,
That since my Flesh must die so soon,
And want a Head to dine next Noon,
Just at the Stroke, when my Veins start and spread,
Set on my Soul an everlasting Head.
Then am I ready, like a Palmer fit,
To tread those blest Paths which before I writ.

_Sir Walter Raleigh._ (_Condensed_)

THE ROYAL COURT

In Royal Courts my Soul hath slept,
On royal meats I’ve fed;
Royal favour sheltered me,
My Soul was wellnigh dead.

The royal eye’s now turned away,
And scorn and dearth are mine;
False-hearted friends are fled afar,
My Soul awakes to pine.

“Oh! where, my Soul, seek refuge now,
While mocking foes pursue?
Oh! whither shall I flee away,
Thou Soul so full of rue?”

“Turn, turn unto this greenwood shade,
And rest beneath His Tree,
With little birds on every bough
To sing His peace to thee.

“A loyal King doth here abide,
Here is his Royal Court;
His carpet green’s enamelled bright
With flowers of every sort.

“His subjects, all the wildwood things,
He feedeth from His hand;
His messengers are birds and winds,
His will they understand.

“His table is bedecked with moss;
His almoners are bees,
The berry-vine, the leaping stream,
And all the fruitful trees.

“Here shalt thou find a Royal Court
Where flatt’ry holds no sway;
And gentle is the royal eye,
Here friendship comes to stay.

“Turn, turn unto the sweet greenwood,
O happy One! and sing
Praise with the birds and all good life,
To Christ who is our King!”

_Modern, anon._

TRUE VALOUR

_Who would true Valour see,
Let him come hither;
One here will constant be,
Come Wind, come Weather.
There’s no_ Discouragement,
_Shall make him once_ Relent,
_His first avow’d_ Intent,
To be a Pilgrim.

_Who so beset him round,
With dismal_ Storys,
_Do but themselves confound;
His Strength the_ more is.
_No_ Lyon _can him fright,
He’l with a_ Gyant _Fight,
But he will have a right_,
To be a Pilgrim.

Hobgoblin, _nor foul_ Fiend,
_Can_ daunt _his Spirit:
He knows, he_ at the end,
Shall Life Inherit.
_Then Fancies fly away,
He’l fear not what men say_,
He’l _labor Night and Day_,
To be a Pilgrim.

_John Bunyan (from reprint of first edition)_

PEACE

Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell, I humbly crave?
Let me once know.
I sought thee in a secret cave,
And asked if Peace were there.
A hollow wind did seem to answer, “No!
Go seek elsewhere.”

I did; and going did a Rainbow note:
“Surely,” thought I,
“This is the lace of Peace’s coat;
I will search out the matter.”
But while I looked the clouds immediately
Did break and scatter.

Then went I to a garden, and did spy
A gallant flower,--
The Crown-Imperial. “Sure,” said I,
“Peace at the root must dwell.”
But when I digged, I saw a worm devour
What showed so well.

At length I met a rev’rend, good, old man;
Whom, when for Peace
I did demand, he thus began:
“There was a Prince of old
At Salem dwelt, Who lived with good increase
Of flock and fold.

“He sweetly lived; yet sweetness did not save
His life from foes.
But after death, out of His grave
There sprang twelve stalks of Wheat;
Which many wondering at got some of those
To plant and set.

“It prospered strangely, and did soon disperse
Through all the Earth;
For they that taste it do rehearse
That virtue lies therein,--
A secret virtue, bringing Peace and Mirth
By flight of Sin.

“Take of this grain, which in my garden grows,
And grows for you:
Make bread of it; and that repose
And Peace, which ev’ry where
With so much earnestness you do pursue,
Is only there.”

_George Herbert_

THE THREE KINGS

Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful Star.

The Star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky,
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell.
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast,
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.

“Of the Child that is born,” said Baltasar,
“Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his Star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews.”

And the people answered, “You ask in vain;
We know of no King but Herod the Great!”
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, “Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new King.”

So they rode away; and the Star stood still,
The only one in the grey of morn;
Yes, it stopped--it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The City of David, where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little Child in the manger lay,
The Child, that would be King one day
Of a Kingdom not human but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odour sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body’s burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David’s throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.

_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_