So sprang they to their feet, and every man,
Pontiff1 and prince, prelate and peer, caught up
Their swords, and kissed the crosiered hilts and swore,
As though their lips the sacramental cup
Had touched, Christ's sepulchre to free! The shore
Of Asia heard that sound in thunder hurled,
"Deus id vult," from Clermont through the world.
AUBREY DE VERE.
THE Hermit stood beside the Saviour's tomb,
His mission past, his righteous hopes fulfilled,
He who, long years agone, had wept and kneeled
At Salem, in her hour of bondage gloom.
There, too, from taint of blood made free, they come,
Contrite they come, each fiery passion stilled,
The warriors of the Cross. Ah, then! how thrilled
Thy bosom, Godfrey,3 treading that dear home
Of all thy troubled thoughts, and pious toil,
In the white robe of peace, with temples bare,
And lingering o'er each hallowed scene, where'er
The Saviour's feet had sanctified the soil;
While red cross banners waved o'er Moslem space,
And sainted spirits hovered in the air.
1 Pope Urban II.
2 God wills it.
3 Godfrey de Bouillon, leader of the Crusade.
WHERE the greenwood is greenest
At gloaming of day,
Where the twelve-antler'd stag
Faces boldest at bay,
Where the solitude deepens,
Till almost you hear
The blood-beat of the heart
As the quarry1 slips near,
His comrades outridden
With scorn in the race,
The Red King is hallooing
His hounds to the chase.
What though the Wild Hunt,
Like a whirlwind of hell
Yester-eve ran the forest,
With baying and yell :—
In his cups the red heathen
Mocks God to the face;
"In the devil's name, shoot;
Tyrrell, ho!—to the chase!"
Now with worms for his courtiers
He lies in the narrow
Cold couch of the chancel!
But whence was the arrow?
The dread vision of Serlo1
That call'd him to die,
The true dreams of the morning
In vain have gone by.
The blood of young Richard'
Cries on him in vain,
In the heart of the Linwood
By arbalest slain;
And he plunges alone
In the serpent-glade gloom,
As one whom the Furies
Hound headlong to doom.
His sin goes before him,
The lust and the pride,
And the curses of England,
Breathe hot at his side;
And the Evil-wood walls
That in ashes were laid
For his jest and his pleasure,
Frown black o'er the glade :-
Now with worms for his courtiers,
He lies in the narrow
Cold couch of the chancel!
But whence was the arrow?
1 A monk who tried to tell Rufus of a dream predicting his death. 2 A nephew of William killed shortly before in the Forest by an
Then a shudder of death
Flicker'd fast through the wood :
And they found the Red King
Red-gilt in his blood.
What wells up in his throat?
Is it cursing, or prayer?
Was it Henry, or Tyrrell,
Or demon, who there
Has dyed the fell tyrant
Twice crimson in gore,
While the soul disembodied
Hunts on to hell-door?
Ah! friendless in death,
Rude forest-hands fling
On the charcoaler's wain
What but now was the king; And through the long Minster
The carcase they bear, And huddle it down
Without priest, without prayer :— Now with worms for his courtiers
He lies in the narrow
Cold couch of the chancel!
But whence was the arrow?
THE Red King lies in Malwood-Keep :
To drive the deer o'er lawn and steep,
He's bown'd1 him with the morn.
His steeds are swift, his hounds are good:
The like, in covert or high-wood,
Were never cheer'd with horn.
And he hath hawks, all fowl to take,
By field, by forest, or by lake,
Right royal is his gear ;
Among his merry men is not
A simple groom, but by the slot
Can track the stricken deer.
But hound and brack are kennell❜d all,
His merry men are fast in hall,
His hawks are on the perch:
For they have flown at high and low,
And his good dogs have chased a doe
From Knowle to Brockenhurst Church.
Red William's bower was closely barred,
His knights without kept watch and ward,
All clad in hunter's green;
The horn about their necks was hung,
And at their sides the quiver swung
With store of arrows keen.
1 Bown, from an old word, bowen, to bend or turn. 2 Places in the forest.
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