Part 1.
St. Mark’s hushed abbey heard
Through prayers a roar and din;
A brawling voice did shout,
“Knave shaveling, let me in!”
The caged porter peeped,
All fluttering, through the grate,
Like birds that hear a mew.
A knight was at the gate.
His left hand reined his steed,
Still smoking from the ford;
His crimson right, that dangled, clutched
Half of his broken sword.
His broken plume flapped low;
His charger’s mane with mud
Was clogged; he wavered in his seat;
His mail dropped drops of blood.
“Who cometh in such haste?”
“Sir Pavon, late, I hight,
Of all the land around
The stanchest, mightiest knight.
“My foes — they dared not face —
Beset me at my back
In ambush. Fast and hard
They follow on my track.
“Now wilt thou let me in,
Or shall I burst the door?”
The grating bolts around back; the knight
Lay swooning in his gore.
As children, half afraid,
Draw near a crushed wasp,
Look, touch, and twitch away
Their hands, then lightly grasp, —
Him to their spital soon
The summoned brethren bore,
And searched his wounds. He woke,
And roundly cursed and swore.
The younger friar stopped his ears;
The elder chid. He flung
His gummy plasters at his mouth,
And bade him hold his tongue.
But, faint and weak, when, left
Upon his couch alone,
He viewed the valley, framed within
His window’s carven stone,
He learned anew to weep,
All as he lay along,
To see the smoke-wreaths from his towers
Climb up the clouds among.
The abbot came to bring
A balsam to his guest,
On soft feet tutored long
To break no sufferer’s rest,
And heard his sobbing heart
Drink deep in draughts of woe;
Then “Benedicite, my son,”
He breathed, in murmurs low.
Right sharply turned the knight
Upon the unwelcome spy;
But changed his shaggy face, as when,
Down through a stormy sky,
The quiet autumn sun
Looks on a landscape grim.
He crossed himself before the priest,
And speechless gazed on him.
His brow was large and grand,
And meet for governing;
The beauty of his holiness
Did crown him like a king.
His mien was high, yet mild;
His deep and reverent eye
Seemed o’er a peaceful past to gaze, —
A blest futurity.
His stainless earthly shell
Was worn so pure and thin,
That through the callow angel showed,
Half-hatched that stirred within.
The cloisters when he paced
At eve, the brethren said,
E’en then a shimmering halo dawned
Around his saintly head.
If forth he went, the street
Became a hollowed aisle.
Men knelt; and children ran to seek
The blessing of his smile;
And mothers on each side came out,
And stood at every door,
And held their babies up, and put
The weanlings forth before.
As pure white lambs unto
Men sickening unto death
Their sweet infectious health give out,
And heal them with their breath,
His white and thriving soul,
In heavenly pastures fed,
Still somewhat of its innocence
On all around him shed.
Sir Pavon’s scarce-stanched wounds
He bound with fearless skill,
Who lay and watched him, meek and mute,
And let him work his will,
While in his fevered brain
Thus mused his fancy quaint:
“My grandam told me once of saints,
And this is, sure, a saint!
“(I was a new-breeched boy,
And sat upon her knee,
Less mindful of the story than
Of cates she gave to me.)
“But then I thought a flood
Came down to drown them all,
And that they only now in stone
Stood on the minster wall,
“Or painted in the glass
Upon the window high,
Where, swelled with spring-tides, breaks the sea
Beneath, and leaves them dry,
“Quite out of danger’s way,
And breathed and walked no more
Upon the muddy earth, to do
The deeds they did of yore,
“When still the sick were healed
Where e’en their shadows fell;
But here is one that’s living yet,
And he shall make me well.”
The patient priest benign
His watch beside him kept,
Until he dropped his burning lids,
And like an infant slept.
Part II.
Some weary weeks were spent
In tossing and in pain,
Before the knight’s huge frame was braced
With strength and steel again.
(He had his armor brought
The day he left his bed,
And fitted on by novice hands,
“To prop him up,” he said.)
Soon jangling then he stamped,
Amazed with all he saw,
Through cell and through refectory,
With little grace or awe.
Unbidden at the board
He sat, a mouthful took,
And shot it spattering through his beard,
Sprang up, and cursed the cook.
If some bowed friar passed by,
He chucked him ‘neath the chin,
And cried, “What cheer?” or, “Dost thou find
That hair-cloth pricks the skin?”
Or if he came on one
In meditation meet,
Or penance, mute, he kindly vowed
To cheer his lone retreat.
“Poor palsied sire,” he cried,
“How fares thy stiffened tongue?
Let mine suffice for both,” — and trolled
A lusty drinking-song.
One softly in his cell
Did scourge his meagre hide,
When Pavon on his rounds came in,
And stood, well pleased, beside:
“What, man! Lay on! lay on!
Nay, hast thou tired thine arm?
Give me thy hempen bunch of cords,
And I will make the warm.”
With doubtful thanks agreed
The monk. Him Pavon whipped
Right deftly, through the cloister, till
For aid he cried and skipped.
In brief, within the house
Of holy Quiet, all
Where’er Sir Pavon went or came
Was outcry, noise, and brawl;
Until the abbot said,
“Anon this coil must cease.
To-morrow is the Truce of God;
Then let him go in peace.
“But call him hither first,
To render thanks to-night
For life restored; for now we go
To do our vesper rite.”
With tamed mien abashed,
The wild, unruly guest
His hest obeyed, and mutely moved
Beside the solemn priest.
Unto a noiseless pace
He strove to curb his stride,
And blushed to hear his jack-boots’ clang
Amid the sandals’ slide.
The censer waved around
Its misty, sweet perfume,
As over him the minster great
Came with its awful gloom.
Through shadowy aisle, ‘neath vaulted roof,
His faltering steps were led;
Beside him was the living saint,
Beneath, the sainted dead.
Bespread with nun-wrought tapestry,
The holy altar stood;
Above it, carved by martyr hands,
Arose the Holy Rood;
Burned round it, tipped with tongues of flame,
Vowed candles white and tall;
And frosted cup and patine, clear,
In silver, painted all.
The prisoned giant Music in
The rumbling organ rolled,
And roared sweet thunders up to heaven,
Through all its pipes of gold.
He started. ‘Mid the prostrate throng
Upright, he heard the hymn
With fallen chin and lifted eye
That searched the arches dim;
For in the lurking echoes there
Responding, tone and word,
A choir of answering seraphim
Above he deemed he heard.
They saw him thus when all was done,
Still rapt and pale as death;
So passed he through the banging gate,
Then drew a long-drawn breath,
As to the priest he turned:
“I cannot ‘go in peace,’
Nor find elsewhere a man like thee,
Nor hear such strains as these!”
“This is no place for knights.”
“Then I a monk will be.”
“Kneel down upon thy knee, fair son,
And tell thy sins to me.”
“My knee is stiff with steel,
And will not bend it well.
‘My sins!’ A peerless knight like me,
What should he have to tell?
“I never turned in fight
Till treason wrought my harm,
Nor then, before my shattered sword
Weighed down my shattered arm.
“I never broke mine oath,
Forgot my friend or foe,
Nor left a benefit unpaid
With weal, or wrong with woe.
“‘Keep thee from me!’ I said,
Still, ere my blows began,
Nor gashed mine unarmed enemy,
Nor smote a felled man,
“Observing every rule
Of generous chivalry;
And maid and matron ever found
A champion leal in me.
“What gallantly I won
In war, I did not hoard,
But spent as gallantly in peace,
With neighbors round my board.”
“Thy neighbors, son? The serfs
For miles who tilled thy ground?”
“Tush, father, nay! The high-born knights
For many a league around.
“They were my brethren sworn,
In battle and in sport.
‘Twere wondrous shame, should one like me
With beggar kernes consort!
“Clean have I made my shrift,”
He said; and so he ceased,
And bore a blithe and guileless cheer,
That sore perplexed the priest.
With words both soft and keen,
He searched his breast within.
Still said he, “So I sinned not,”
Or, “That is, sure, no sin.”
The abbot beat his breast:
“Alack, the man is lost!
Erewhile he must have grieved away
The warning Holy Ghost!
“His guardian angel he
Hath scared from him to heaven!
Who cannot mourn, nor see, his sin,
How can he be forgiven?
“E’en Patmos’ gentle seer,
Doth he not say, in sooth,
He lies who saith, I have no sin,
Quite empty of the truth!
“Search thou this sacred tome.”
“‘Sblood! — Saints! — A knight to read!”
The abbot read. The novice strove,
With duteous face, to heed,
But heard a hunt sweep b,
And to the door did leap,
Cried, “Holla, ho!” and then, abashed,
Sat down and dropped asleep.
“Such novice ne’er I saw!
Sweet Mary be my speed!
For sure the sorer is my task,
The sorer is his need.”
He gazed upon him long,
With pondering, pitying eyes,
As the leech on the sick whose hidden ail
All herbs and drugs defies;
And, “Hath thy heart might,” at last, “to-night,”
He to Sir Pavon said,
“When all men sleep, thy vigil to keep,
In the crypt among the dead?
“Night hath many a tongue, her black hours among,
Less false than the tongues of Day,
While Mercy the prayer hath full leisure to hear,
Of all who wake to pray.
“The mute swart queen hides many a sin,
But oft to the sinner’s heart
Remorse, with the tale, she sends to wail,
And thus atones in part.”
Well-nigh laughed the knight, “Ay, and many a night,
Good father, do not spare.
Ne’er yet have I found, on or under the ground,
The venture I could not dare.
“Ten years I’ve quelled in war lively warriors, near and far;
Shall I shun a dead clerk’s bones to see?
Ne’er till now I pledged my hand to serve in the band
Of captain I loved like thee.”
Part III.
Sir Pavon sat upon his shield,
And breathed the earthy damp,
And strained his empty ear to hear
The simmering of his lamp.
It made a little tent of light,
Hung round with shadows dim,
That drooped as if the low-groined roof
Did couch to fall on him.
The stunted columns, thick and short,
Like sentry gnomes stood round;
And lettered slabs, that roofed the dead,
Lay thickly on the ground.
He watched to hear the midnight lauds,
But heard them not until
He deemed it dawn. They swelled at last,
And ceased; and all was still.
The Future towards him marched no more;
The Past was dead and gone;
Time dwindled to a single point;
The convent-clock tolled One.
Then the door was oped and closed,
But by no human hand;
And there entered in a Cry,
And before him seemed to stand, —
A viewless, bodiless Cry,
That lifted the hair on his head; —
‘Twas small as a new-born babe’s at first,
But straightway it rose and spread,
Till it knocked against the roof,
And his ears they rang and beat;
The hard walls throbbed around, above,
And the stones crept under his feet;
And when it fell away,
He reeled and almost fell;
And fast for aid he gasped and prayed,
Till he heard the matin-bell.
The monk who came to let him out
Scarce knew him. In that night,
His nut-brown beard and crisped hair
Had turned to snowy white.
Part IV.
Like to a hunted beast,
To Abbot Urban’s cell
He rushed; and with a foamy lip
Down at his feet he fell:
“I heard a voice, — a voice! —
O father, help! It said
That I the Lord of life
Had scourged and buffeted,
“Spit in his face, and mocked,
And sold him to his foes;
Then, through the hollow earth,
In dreary triumph rose
“Up, till the words I snatched,
A fiendish chorus dim,
‘He did it unto one of HIS!
He did it unto HIM!'”
“My son, what meaneth this?”
“My father, on my word,
In court or camp, abroad, at home,
I never knew the Lord!
“I do remember once
I had a hunchback slave,
Who to the beggars round my door
From his own trencher gave,
“And made them swarm the more,
Despite the porter’s blows,
And broke into my banquet-hall,
With tidings of their woes.
“Him I chastised and sold.
But thought no harm, nor knew
The Lord so squalid minions had,
Among his chosen few;
“But if the man was his,
I’ll freely give thee thrice,
In broad, bright rounds of ruddy gold,
The pittance of his price.”
“Gold boys this world, not heaven.
This cannot make thee whole.
Each stripe that rends the slave’s poor flesh,
It hurts his Master’s soul;
“And if the slave doth die,”
He said beneath his breath,
“I fear the Master’s sprite for aye
Rots in the second death.
“But be of better cheer.
Since thou thy sin canst see,
‘Tis plain thy guardian angel back
Hath flown from heaven to thee.
“The soul benumbed by sin,
And limb that’s numb with frost,
Are saved by timely aches. If first
They reach the fire, they’re lost.
“The Sun of righteousness,
Whose beaming smile on high,
With light, and life, and love doth fill
The mansions of the sky,
“And kindles risen souls
Unto a rapturous glow,
Who duly sought his scattered rays,
To bask in them below,
“Seems but a hideous glare
Of blazing pangs untold,
To those whom death hath made more pale,
But could not make more cold.
“Full many a man like thee,
Unless by devils driven,
Would never turn his laggard steps
To hurry unto heaven.
“Thank God, who oped thine ear
Unto their dreary lay,
Ere came the night that summoned thee
To chant with them for aye!
“That holy text, which through
Their gnashing teeth they laughed
And screamed. I read thee yester eve,
And they with wonted craft
“Told o’er, their fright and pain
That thou shouldst come to share,
As birds by hissing serpents seared
Drop down, through sheer despair.
“But in its two pure hands
Each holy Scripture still
Doth bear a blessing for the good,
A curse unto the ill.
“Heed thou, but do not fear
Too much their threatening voice,
Who tremble and believe. Thou yet
Believing mayst rejoice.
“Take up thy cross with speed.
This penance shalt thou do;
Thyself in sad humility
To seek Christ’s servant go,
“Both near and far; and dry
His tears with thine, if still
His limbs the toil-exacting earth
In misery tread and till.”
His forehead from his hands
Upraised the haggard guest:
“And even here, and even yet,
For me no heavenly rest!”
The abbot shook his head:
“God help thee now, poor son!
The heavenly rest is but for those
Who heavenly work have done.
“Strife is the bridge o’er hell
‘Twixt sin and sin forgiven;
Still purgatory lies between
The wicked world and heaven.
“The priceless pearl is worth
The plunge through whelming floods.
The bitter years man loathes are but
Eternity’s green buds.
“Thou hast, in Satan’s ranks,
To harm been brisk and brave;
Thou wilt not shrink, when sent by Christ
To suffer and to save.”
Part V.
Sir Pavon’s gallant steed was dead;
Sir Pavon’s sword was broke.
On foot he went; and in his hand
The abbot’s staff he took,
And many an hour fared patiently,
Beneath the parching sun,
That eyed him through his riven wall
Before the day was done.
The shattered casements gaped and stared;
Black charcoal paved the floor;
Up rose his hunger-maddened hound,
And bit him in the door.
He climbed the scathed and tottering stair
Unto the sooty tower;
His rifled coffers upside down
Lay in his secret bower.
With heavy heart and tread he trod
The banquet-hall below;
The hollow-voiced echoes chid
Each other, to and fro.
A jeering face peeped in; he heard
A titter and a shout;
In rushed his rabble rout of hinds,
And round him danced about:
“Ho, worthy master, welcome home!
Where hast thou left thy sword,
Thy kingly port, and lusty blows?
We serve another lord.”
They strove to trip him as he went;
They drove him from his door:
“Now fare ye well, my fathers’ halls!
We part to meet no more.
“Farewell my pride and pomp and power!
Farewell, my slippery wealth,
That bought my soul’s sore malady,
Nor stayed to buy my health!
“Farewell, my sturdy strength, that did
The Devil’s work so well,
All blasted by God’s thunderbolts,
That on my spirit fell!
“And thou, O brave and loyal Christ,
Who, ‘mid the sordid Jews,
By love, not fear, constrained couldst
At Satan’s hands refuse
“The crown and sceptre of the world,
And choose the cross and rod, —
Thy more than earthly manhood in
Its glory unto God
“Lay down, — accept, and do not scorn
The beaten losel me,
Who, worthless for thy service, come
For shelter unto thee.”
Walked with him flagging Weariness;
And Famine spun his head:
“I would, of all my feasts, were left
One little crust of bread.”
When maids and stars their tapers lit,
HE reached a wooden hut;
The chinks were gilt by light therein,
But close the door was shut.
What seemed an aged woman’s voice
Within, with sob and groan,
Entreated Heaven in agony
To send her back her son:
“The day is night that shows me not
His face, — the voice of joy
Mere heart-break till his laugh I hear!
O, send me back my boy!
“In pity send some tidings soon!
If thus I grieve, I dread
Lest, when he hurries back to me, —
Poor youth! — he find me dead.
“Let ht em not tell me he is dead,
And buried anywhere!
What has the ground or brine to do
With his dear mouth and hair,
“That I have kissed and stroked so oft
There by his empty chair?
Yon doublet new, I’ve wrought for him,
He’ll soon come back to wear.
“I brushed the very flies away,
That with his brows did toy,
When tired he slept. How could the worms
Or fishes eat my boy?
“O Father, who thine only Son
Didst yield to pain and death,
And know’st ’tis deadlier pain to do’t,
Than give the rattling breath,
“If not my boy, let unto me
His faith and trust be given,
That I may clasp him yet again,
If not on earth, in heaven.”
She ceased, Sir Pavon softly knocked;
The door flew open wide.
“Fear not, good mother,” he began,
“O, is it thou?” she cried,
Then turned away and wrung her hands.
“If thou wilt give to me
A morsel, and a cup of wine,
Perchance thy charity,
“When ended is my present quest,
I may full well requite,
If lives thy son, and bring him back.
I am a famous knight, —
“Although of late mine ambushed foe
Despoiled me traitorly, —
And maid and matron ever found
A champion leal in me.”
“Alack, I have no wine nor flesh,
Nor yet a crust of bread!
Herbs for my noontide meal I culled,
Untasted still,” she said;
“And water from the brook I’ll bring, —
Scant fare for hungry guest! —
But sit thee down at least, and feed
Thy weariness with rest.
“Thou hast seen other lands perchance?”
“Good mother, many a one.
I pray you fill my cup once more.”
“O, hast thou seen my son?”
“Went he a soldier?” “Nay, but he
Was seized and sold away,
I know not where. No news of him
Has reached me from that day.
“He bade me still with wayfarers
His scanty portion share.
Thou eatest from his platter now,
And sittest in his chair.
“He was so good!” “Who used him so?”
“Sir Pavon was his name.”
His platter dropped, and over him
A deadly sickness came.
“I knew not half my guilt!” he shrieked,
And on his brow did strike;
These mothers are like God, then, — love
Ugly and fair alike!
“‘Twas I. Thou art avenged on me,
To find him is my quest;
Nor till ’tis done, in life or death,
For me is any rest.
“God’s heaviest hand is for his sake
Meanwhile upon me laid.
For his deliverance pray, and mine;
And take me in his stead.
“A duteous son I’ll be to thee
Until I give him back.
I’ve many friends would give us steeds
To bear us on his track.”
Part VI.
“Who may yon man be, who on foot
Comes in his iron coat,
And, with an old wife at his side,
Toils towards the castle-moat?
“He looketh as Sir Pavon should
If thirty years were o’er;
But he is dead, they say. We’ll know.
Ho, there! The drawbridge lower!”
“What, Pavon! Hast thou come to life?
Thou lookest like a ghost.”
“Nigh slain was I by treachery;
My sword and all is lost.
“And I was ill, and worse. Alas!
With thee I may not bide,
But day and night, by fiends pursued,
Upon a quest must ride,
“To free my soul, that erst I sold
To bondage with a slave.
My merry life is dead in me!
Myself a haunted grave!
“Of thy dear love, long pledged and sworn,
Some food and drink I pray
For this poor dame, and gold and steeds,
To bear us on our way.”
He reeled with weakness: “He is starved.
Lead hence, and feed him well;
And when our feast is done to-night,
His tale we’ll hear him tell.
“He’s crazed with shame, as erst with pride, —
Perchance ’twill please my guests
To list. My fool is growing old,
And oft repeats his jests.”
Scarce were they at the burdened board
Ranged by the seneschal,
When Pavon fed and calmed came in,
And stood before them all,
And clasped each slackened hand, and smiled
In many a well-known face,
And fell upon some cooling hearts
Once more in kind embrace:
“Dear mates, how good it is to stand
Again among you here,
Though ‘neath my ruined towers no more
We make our wonted cheer!
“I must not stay; but list a word,
And mark it well, before
I look my last upon you all,
Perchance, forevermore.
“Among the tombs I sat, and heard
Within me or without, —
I know not which, — a horrid voice:
It drives me still about.
“A wondrous thing it told to me,
As terrible as new,
Undreamed of to that hour by me,
To this, I ween, by you.
“Christ, ‘mid the serfs hath men, whom he
Dear as himself doth hold;
Thus he who sells his Christian slave,
His master, Christ, hath sold,
“For from the very book of peace
The fiends have learned a hymn, —
‘Who did it unto one of his,
Hath done it unto him.'”
Each in his neighbors’ faces looked;
And some were pale with fear;
“Out!” roard the host, “ye serving men,
What make ye gaping here,
“To swallow what concerns you not?
Such ravings if they hear,
They’ll rave themselves. I saw them all
Prick up each meddling ear.
“Your pardon, noble comrades all;
A very sorry jest
Was this to make you sport withal;
He told me of a quest.”
“My quest it is to find and free
The hunchback, whom of old,
When thou wert wassailing with me
At Christmastide, I sold.
“Look not so darkly on me, friends,
I will not mar your feast;
But, Raymond, for the red-roan steeds
I lent thee, give at least
“To me one jennet, mule, or ass,
That I thereon may lead
His blister-footed mother hence,
And make the better speed.”
“Poor man, his case is pitiful.
If madman e’er I saw,
He’s mad! What say ye? Let him go?
Or give him chains and straw!”
“He was a gallant champion late!”
“He’s harmless; let him go.”
“Nay, if he stirreth up the serfs
I cannot count him so.”
Then rage brought back Sir Pavon’s strength:
He dashed the casement through,
Leaped headlong down, and all in steel
He swam the moat below.
Forth swarmed the valets sent, for him,
But soon returned without,
So hotly with the abbot’s staff
He ‘mongst them laid about.
His comrades from the battlements
Looked wondering down to see
The knight the hobbling crone await,
With pity and with glee.
He paced to meet her courteously;
He propped her with his arm,
And with his staff, and bent as if
To soothe her weak alarm;
But with a bitter laugh he said,
“Sure, he who findeth out
How fickle are the world’s sweet smiles,
Can do its smiles without.”
Part VII.
Long years of hunger, cold, and heat,
And home-sick toil in vain; —
Long years of wondering up and down,
O’er inland, coast, and main; —
Long years of asking still for one,
And longing day and night,
Who, ever present with the soul,
Hath vanished from the sight!
The freeman like a growing tree
Thrives, rooted in his place;
The bondman, like a withered leaf,
Flits on and leaves no trace.
Sir Pavon’s armor rusted off;
He seemed no more a knight;
Yet ever to himself he said,
While raged his inward flight,
“How quickly may a wrong be done,
How slowly done away!
Shall all eternity repair
My trespass of a day?”
While some said, “East,” and some said, “West,”
And most, “I cannot tell,”
They ate the stranger’s crusts, and drank
At many a stranger’s well.
He ever walked, or stood, or sat,
Between her and the blast.
She cheered him with forgiving words,
And begged his scant repast.
In penitent and pardoning woe,
Thus went they hand in hand,
The master and the slave. They trod
The cactus-hatching sand.
They stood beneath the snowy pole,
Where, quenched, the heavenward eye,
Sinks dizzy back to earth, beneath
The crumbling, sinking sky.
Part VIII.
“I, sail-borne trader, hast thou seen,
In lands beneath the sun,
Or in the shadow of the pole,
My Anselm? O my son!”
“A pilgrim, dame?” “A slave.” “A slave!
Ask, have I seen a sheep!
Ay, flocks and flocks, where’er I go,
Yon Moors their hundreds keep, —
“The lazy tawny dogs! — beyond,
Where ‘twixt these fronting lands
The writhing sea his pent-up way
Tears ‘twixt the rocks and sands.”
“He is like no one else. His face
Is wondrous mild and fair;
His eyes are kind and bright; and fine
And silky in his hair.”
“Ha, ha! So whines the shepherd lad
Whose petted ewe hath strayed!”
“He bore a hump upon his back,”
Sir Pavon softly said, —
“Was helpful to the poor beyond
The custom of mankind.”
Before the statelier questioner
The merchant searched his mind.
“Such slave I saw in Barbary,
A twelvemonth scarce agone.
A fever-smitten sailor there
We left to die alone; —
“It grieved me much. We could not choose.
Our venture had been lost.
Had we not seized the first fair gale
To sweep us from the coast.
“I hurried back. I thought to see
His living face no more,
But haply give him burial.
He met me on the shore,
“Thin as this blade, and white as is
This handle of my knife.
A slave, he said, had ta’en him in
And nursed him like a wife,
“A hunchback, for he showed me him.
How called you yours?” “His name
Was Anselm.” “Ay, and so was his,
It is the very same.
“Old Hassan’s steward in the sun
Doth beat him to and fro;
He limps with water from the tanks
To make the melons grow.
“See how my Sea-gull flaps her wings,
Impatient for the deep!
Anon shall she to Tripoli
So lightly dart and leap;
“And for that bounteous deed of his
His mother shall he see; —
What costs a good turn now and then? —
Embark and sail with me,
“For nothing, — if ye nothing have.
They’ll call for little food,
On landlocked billows, sickened by
The tossing of the flood.”
The anchor climbed. The wind blew fair,
But ere they neared the pier
The old wife on death’s threshold lay,
Distraught with hope and fear.
“How canst thou free him from his woes?
Thou hast nor friends nor gold.
How may I even crawl to him
His misery to behold?
“O master, trail me through the dust
And leave me at his feet!”
“Nay, thou wert patient all those years.
Here, sheltered from the heat,
“A little longer wait and pray;
It may be but an hour.
Our Lord, who bade to succor him,
I think shall give the power.
“And, merchant, if he fly with me
Wilt hear him hence?” “My head,
And thine, were lost belike! Art mad?
‘Twould surely cost my trade.
“I buy and sell, but steal not, slaves!”
“Thou’rt known to Hassan?” “Ay.”
“Then lead me to him; and the Lord,
I think, the slave shall buy.
“Then wilt thou bear him hence, and her?”
“Ay, on mine honest word.
Oft as I may, I gladly do
A pleasure to the Lord.”
Turbaned and robed old Hassan sat.
An atmosphere of rest
Hung brooding o’er his soft divan,
His beard slept on his breast.
His rolling eyes upon the floor
Did round about him fall,
To thread the mazy arabesques
Paved in his marble hall.
They shone and glimmered moist with dew,
While, robed in spangled spray,
Amidst them high a fountain danced
In whispering, tittering play.
No joy, grief, awe, nor doubt looked through
His features swart and still;
“I ought” had ne’er been written there,
But petrified, “I will.”
“What wouldst thou, merchant?” “Nothing, I;
This godly man would speak,
A very godly man! — Methinks
His wits are somewhat weak.”
“Good Hassan, for thy hunchback slave
I’ve sought through dreary years;
Wilt give him up?” “In change for what?”
“Our prayers and grateful tears.”
“I want them not.” “Thou mayst one day!
When misbelievers stand
Amazed in judgement, he shall plead
For thee at God’s right hand;
“His mother, too; — they’re dear to Christ;
I know it all too well!
And I up from my lower place
Will cry aloft and tell,
“That thou art he my sinking soul
Who lifted out of hell;
Till all the saints shall join with me,
O blessed infidel!”
“Hast nothing else to offer?” “Ay,
To serve thee
(E Foxton)
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Based on Topics: Love Poems, Man Poems, God Poems, Life Poems, World Poems, Night Poems, Light Poems, Mind Poems, Sadness Poems, Time Poems, Death & Dying PoemsBased on Keywords: lettered, ravings, simmering, grandam, tush, undreamed, turbaned, hempen, patmos, roundly, wayfarers