Classic Poem

A BALLAD OF THE CRUSADES .

Beneath the stars in Palestine seven knights discoursing stood,
But not of warlike work to come, nor former fields of blood;
Nor of the joy the pilgrims feel, prostrated far, who see
The hill where Christ's atoning Blood poured down the penal tree:
Their theme was old, their theme was new; 'twas sweet and yet, 'twas bitter —
Of noble ladies left behind, spoke cavalier and ritter;
And eyes grew bright, and sighs arose from every iron breast,
For a dear wife, or plighted maid, far in the widowed west.

Towards the knights came Constantine, thrice noble by his birth,
And ten times nobler than his blood, his high out-shining worth,
His step was slow, his lips were moved, though not a word he spoke,
Till a gallant lord of Lombardy his spell of silence broke:
" What aileth thee, O Constantine, that solitude you seek?
If counsel, or if aid you need, we pray thee do but speak;
Or dost thou mourn, like other " freres," thy lady-love afar
Whose image shineth nightly through yon European star?"

Then, answered courteous Constantine: " Good Sir, in simple truth,
I chose a gracious Lady in the hey-day of my youth;
I wear her image on my heart and, when that heart is cold,
The secret may be rifled thence, but never must be told.
For, her I love and worship well by light of morn or even;
I ne'er shall see my Mistress dear, until we meet in heaven;
But this believe, brave cavaliers, there never was but one
Such Lady as my holy love, beneath the blessed sun."

He ceased, and passed with solemn step on to an olive grove,
And kneeling there he prayed a prayer to the Lady of his love;
And many a cavalier whose lance has still maintained his own
Beloved to reign without a peer, all earth's unequalled one,
Looked tenderly on Constantine in camp and in the fight;
With wonder and with generous pride they marked the lightning light
Of his fearless sword careering through the unbelievers' ranks,
As angry Rhone sweeps off the vines that thicken on his banks.

" He fears not death come when it will, he longeth for his love,
And fain would find some sudden path to where she dwells above —
How should he fear for dying, when his Mistress dear is dead?"
Thus often of Sir Constantine his watchful comrades said:
Until it chanced from Sion's wall the fatal arrow flew,
That pierced the outworn armour of his faithful bosom through;
And never was such mourning made for knight in Palestine,
As thy loyal comrades made for thee, beloved Constantine.

Beneath the royal tent, the bier was guarded night and day,
Where, with a halo round his head, the Christian champion lay;
That talisman upon his breast — what may that marvel be,
Which kept his ardent soul through life from every error free?
Approach, behold, nay, worship there the image of his love —
The Heavenly Queen who reigneth all the sacred hosts above;
Nor wonder, that around his bier there lingers such a light,
For the spotless one that sleepeth, was " the Blessed Virgin's Knight."