Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY, by RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE NORTHERN KNIGHT IN ITALY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: This is the record, true as his own word
Last Line: Embalm it, to be known in after-times.
Alternate Author Name(s): Houghton, 1st Baron; Houghton, Lord
Subject(s): Crusades; Legends


THIS is the record, true as his own word,
Of the adventures of a Christian knight,
Who, when beneath the foul Karasmian sword
God's rescued city sunk to hopeless night,
Desired, before he gain'd his northern home,
To soothe his wounded heart at Holy Rome.

And having found, in that reflected heaven,
More than Caesarean splendours and delights,
So that it seemed to his young sense was given
An unimagined world of sounds and sights; --
Yet, half regretful of the long delay,
He joined some comrades on their common way.

The Spring was mantling that Italian land,
The Spring! the passion-season of our earth,
The joy, whose wings will never all expand, --
The gladsome travail of continuous birth, --
The force that leaves no creature unimbued
With amorous Nature's bland inquietude.

Though those hard sons of tumult and bold life,
Little as might be, own'd the tender power,
And only show'd their words and gestures rife
With the benign excitement of the hour, --
Yet one, the one of whom this tale is told,
In his deep soul was utterly controll'd.

New thoughts sprung up within him, -- new desires
Opened their panting bosoms to the sun;
Imagination scattered lights and fires
O'er realms before impenetrably dun;
His senses, energized with wondrous might,
Mingled in lusty contest of delight.

The once-inspiring talk of steel and steeds
And famous captains lost its ancient zest;
The free recital of illustrious deeds
Came to him vapid as a thrice-told jest;
His fancy was of angels penance-bound
To convoy sprites through heavenly ground.

The first-love vision of those azure eyes,
Twin stars that blessed and kept his spirit cool,
Down-beaming from the brazen Syrian skies,
Now seem'd the spectral doting of a fool, --
Unwelcome visitants that stood between
Him and the livelier glories of the scene.

What wanted he with such cold monitors?
What business had he with the past at all?
Well, in the pauses of those clamorous wars,
Such dull endearment might his heart enthral,
But, in this universe of blissful calm,
He had no pain to need that homely balm.

Occasion, therefore, in itself though slight
He made of moment to demand its stay,
Where some rare houses, in the clear white light,
Like flakes of snow among the verdure lay;
And bade the company give little heed,
He would o'ertake them by redoubled speed.

But now at length resolved to satisfy
The appetite of beauty, and repair
Those torpid years which he had let glide by,
Unconscious of the powers of earth and air,
He rested, roved, and rested while he quafft
The deepest richness of the sunny draught.

Eve after eve he told his trusty band
They should advance straight northward on the morrow,
Yet when he rose, and to that living land
Addressed his farewell benison of sorrow,
With loveliest aspect Nature answer'd so,
It seem'd almost impiety to go.

Thus days were gather'd into months, and there
He linger'd, sauntering without aim or end:
Not unaccompanied; for wheresoe'er
His steps, through wood, or glen, or field, might tend, --
A bird-like voice was ever in his ear,
Divinely sweet and rapturously clear.

From the pinaster's solemn-tented crown, --
From the fine olive spray that cuts the sky, --
From bare or flowering summit, floated down
That music unembodied to the eye:
Sometime beside his feet it seemed to run,
Or fainted, lark-like, in the radiant sun.

Soon as this mystic sound attained his ear,
Barriers arose, impermeable, between
Him and the two wide worlds of hope and fear; --
His life entire was in the present scene;
The passage of each day he only knew
By the broad shadows and the deepening blue.

His senses by such ecstasy possest,
He chanced to climb a torrent's slippery side,
And, on the utmost ridge refusing rest,
Took the first path his eager look descried;
And paused, as one outstartled from a trance,
Within a place of strange significance.

A ruin'd temple of the Pagan world, --
Pillars and pedestals with rocks confused, --
Art back into the lap of nature hurl'd,
And still most beautiful, when most abused;
A Paradise of pity, that might move
Most careless hearts, unknowingly, to love!

A very garden of luxurious weeds,
Hemlock in trees, acanthine leaves outspread,
Flowers here and there, the growth of wind-cast seeds,
With vine and ivy draperies overhead;
And by the access, two nigh-sapless shells,
Old trunks of myrtle, haggard sentinels!

Amid this strife of vigour and decay
An Idol stood, complete, without a stain,
Hid by a broad projection from the sway
Of winter gusts and daily-rotting rain.
Time and his agents seem'd alike to spare
A thing so unimaginably fair.

By what deep memory or what subtler mean
Was it, that at the moment of this sight,
The actual past -- the statue and the scene,
Stood out before him in historic light?
He knew the glorious image by its name --
Venus! the Goddess of unholy fame.

He heard the tread of distant generations
Slowly defiling to their place of doom;
And thought how men, and families, and nations
Had trusted in the endless bliss and bloom
Of Her who stood in desolation there,
Now lorn of love and unrevered prayer.

Beauty without an eye to gaze on it,
Passion without a breast to lean upon,
Feelings unjust, unseemly, and unfit,
Troubled his spirit's high and happy tone;
So back with vague imaginative pain
He turned the steps that soon returned again.

For there henceforth he every noon reposed
In languor self-sufficient for the day,
Feeling the light within his eyelids closed,
Or peeping, where the locusts, like a ray,
Shot through its crevice, and, without a sound,
The insect hosts enjoyed their airy round.

Day-dreams give sleep, and sleep brings dreams anew;
Thus oft a face of untold tenderness,
A cloud of woe with beauty glistening through,
Brooded above him in divine distress, --
And sometimes bowed so low, as it would try
His ready lips, then vanished with a sigh:

And round him flowed through that intense sunshine
Music, whose notes at once were words and tears;
"Paphos was mine, and Amathus was mine,
Mine were the Idalian groves of ancient years, --
The happy heart of Man was all mine own,
Now I am homeless and alone -- alone!"

At other times, to his long-resting gaze,
Instinct with life the solid sculpture grew,
And rose transfigured, 'mid a golden haze,
Till lost within the impermeable blue;
Yet ever, though with liveliest hues composed,
Sad-swooning sounds the apparition closed.

As the strong waters fill the leaky boat
And suck it downwards, by unseen degrees; --
So sunk his soul, the while it seemed to float
On that serene security of ease,
Into a torpid meditative void,
By the same fancies that before upbuoyed.

His train, though wondering at their changeful lord,
Had no distaste that season to beguile
With mimic contests and well-furnished board, --
And even he would sometimes join awhile
Their sports, then turn, as if in scorn, away
From such rude commerce and ignoble play.

One closing eve, thus issuing forth, he cried,
"Land of my love! in thee I cast my lot; --
Till death thy faithful subject I abide, --
Home, kindred, country, knighthood, all forgot, --
Names that I heed no more, while I possess
Thy heartfelt luxury of loveliness!"

That summer night had all the healthy cool
That nerves the spirit of the youthful year;
Yet, as to eyes long fixed on a deep pool,
The waters dark and bright at once appear,
So, through the freshness on his senses soon
Came the warm memories of the lusty noon.

Such active pleasure tingling through his veins,
Quicken'd his pace beneath the colonnade,
Chesnut, and ilex -- to the mooned plains
A bronze relief and garniture of shade, --
When, just before him, flittingly, he heard
The tender voice of that familiar bird.

Holding his own, to catch that sweeter breath,
And listening, so that each particular sound
Was merged in that attention's depth, his path
Into the secret of the forest wound;
The clear-drawn landscape, and the orb's full gaze,
Gave place to dimness and the wild-wood's maze.

That thrilling sense, which to the weak is fear,
Becomes the joy and guerdon of the brave;
So, trusting his harmonious pioneer,
His heart he freely to the venture gave,
And through close brake, and under pleached aisle,
Walked without sign of outlet many a mile.

When, turning round a thicket weariedly,
A building, of such mould as well might pass
From graceful Greece to conquering Italy,
Rose in soft outline from the silver'd grass,
Whose doors thrown back and inner lustre show'd
It was no lorn and tenantless abode.

Children of all varieties of fair,
And gaily vested, cluster'd round the portal,
Until one Boy, who had not mien and air
Of future manhood, but of youth immortal,
Within an arch of light, came clear to view,
Descending that angelic avenue.

"Stranger! the mistress of this happy bower,"
Thus the bright messenger the knight addrest --
"Bids us assert her hospitable power,
And lead thee in a captive or a guest;
Rest is the mate of night, -- let opening day
Speed the rejoicing on thy work and way."

Such gentle bidding might kind answer earn;
The full moon's glare put out each guiding star;
He summ'd the dangers of enforc'd return,
And now first marvell'd he had roved so far:
Then murmur'd glad acceptance, tinged with fear,
Lest there unmeet his presence should appear.

Led by that troop of youthful innocence,
A hall he traversed, up whose heaven-topt dome
Thick vapours of delightful influence
From gold and alabastar altars clomb,
And through a range of pillar'd chambers past,
Each one more full of faerie than the last.

To his vague gaze those peopled walls disclosed
Graces and grandeurs more to feel than see, --
Celestial and heroic forms composed
In many a frame of antique poesy;
But, wheresoe'er the scene or tale might fall,
Still Venus was the theme and crown of all.

There young Adonis scorn'd to yield to her,
Soon by a sterner nature overcome;
There Paris, happy hapless arbiter,
For beauty barter'd kingdom, race, and home;
Save what AEneas rescued by her care,
As the Didonian wood-nymph pictured there.

But ere he scanned them long, a Lady enter'd,
In long white robes majestical array'd,
Though on her face alone his eyes were centred,
Which weird suspicion to his mind convey'd,
For every feature he could there divine
Of the old marble in the sylvan shrine.

On his bewilderment she gently smiled,
To his confusion she benignly spoke;
And all the fears that started up so wild
Lay down submissive to her beauty's yoke:
It was with him as if he saw through tears
A countenance long-loved and lost for years.

She asked, "if so he will'd," the stranger's name,
And, when she heard it, said, "the gallant sound
Had often reached her on the wing of fame,
Though long recluse from fortune's noisy round;
Her lot was cast in loneliness, and yet
On noble worth her woman-heart was set."

Rare is the fish that is not meshed amain,
When Beauty tends the silken net of praise;
Thus little marvel that in vaunting strain
He spoke of distant deeds and brave affrays,
Till each self-glorious thought became a charm,
For her to work against him to his harm.

Such converse of melodious looks and words
Paused at the call of other symphonies,
Invisible agencies that draw the cords
Of massive curtains, rising as they rise,
So that the music's closing swell reveal'd
The Paradise of pleasure there conceal'd.

It was a wide alcove, thick-wall'd with flowers,
Gigantic blooms, of aspect that appear'd
Beyond the range of vegetative powers,
A flush of splendour almost to be fear'd,
A strange affinity of life between
Those glorious creatures and that garden's Queen.

Luminous gems were weaving from aloft
Fantastic rainbows on the fountain spray, --
Cushions of broider'd purple, silken-soft,
Profusely heaped beside a table lay,
Whereon all show of form and hue increast
The rich temptation of the coming feast.

There on one couch, and served by cherub hands,
The Knight and Lady banqueted in joy:
With freshest fruits from scarce discover'd lands,
Such as he saw in pictures when a boy,
And cates of flavours excellent and new,
That to the unpalled taste still dearer grew.

Once, and but once, a spasm of very fear
Went through him, when a breeze of sudden cold
Sigh'd, like a dying brother, in his ear,
And made the royal flowers around upfold
Their gorgeous faces in the leafy band,
Like the mimosa touched by mortal hand.

Then almost ghastly seem'd the tinted sheen,
Saltless and savourless those luscious meats,
Till quick the Lady rose, with smile serene,
As one who could command but still entreats,
And filling a gold goblet, kissed the brim,
And passed it bubbling from her lips to him.

At once absorbing that nectareous draught,
And the delicious radiance of those eyes,
At doubt and terror-fit he inly laughed,
And grasped her hand as 'twere a tourney's prize;
And heard this murmur, as she nearer drew,
"Yes, I am Love, and Love was made for you!"

They were alone: the attendants, one by one,
Had vanished: faint and fainter rose the air
Oppressed with odours: through the twilight shone
The glory of white limbs and lustrous hair,
Confusing sight and spirit, till he fell,
The will-less, mindless, creature of the spell.

In the dull deep of satisfied desire
Not long a prisoner lay that knightly soul,
But on his blood, as on a wave of fire,
Uneasy fancies rode without control,
Voices and phantoms that did scarcely seem
To take the substance of an order'd dream.

At first he stood beside a public road,
Hedged in by myrtle and embower'd by plane,
While figures, vested in old Grecian mode,
Drew through the pearly dawn a winding train,
So strangely character'd, he could not know
Were it of triumph or funereal woe.

For crowns of bay enwreath'd each beauteous head,
Beauty of perfect maid and perfect man;
Slow-paced the milk-white oxen garlanded;
Torch-bearing children mingled as they ran
Gleaming amid the elder that uphold
Tripods and cups and plates of chased gold.

But then he marked the flowers were colourless,
Crisp-wither'd hung the honourable leaves,
And on the faces sat the high distress
Of those whom Self sustains when Fate bereaves:
So gazed he, wondering how that pomp would close,
When the dream changed, but not to his repose.

For now he was within his father's hall,
No tittle changed of form or furniture,
But all and each a grave memorial
Of youthful days, too careless to endure, --
There was his mother's housewife-work, and there,
Beside the fire, his grandame's crimson chair:

Where, cowering low, that ancient woman sat,
Her bony fingers twitching on her knee,
Her dry lips muttering fast he knew not what,
Only the sharp convulsion could he see;
But, as he looked, he felt a conscience dim
That she was urging God in prayer for him.

Away in trembling wretchedness he turn'd,
And he was in his leman's arms once more;
Yet all the jewell'd cressets were outburn'd,
And all the pictured walls, so gay before,
Show'd, in the glimmer of one choking lamp,
Blotched with green mould and worn by filthy damp.

Enormous bats their insolent long wings
Whirl'd o'er his head, and swung against his brow,
And shrieked -- "We cozen'd with our ministerings
The foolish knight, and have our revel now:"
And worms bestrew'd the weeds that overspread
The floor with silken flowers late carpeted.

His sick astonished looks he straight addressed
To her whose tresses lay around his arm,
And fervent breath was playing on his breast,
To seek the meaning of this frightful charm;
But she was there no longer, and instead,
He was the partner of a demon's bed, --

That, slowly rising, brought the lurid glare
Of its fixed eyes close opposite to his;
One scaly hand laced in his forehead hair,
Threatening his lips with pestilential kiss,
And somewise in the fiendish face it wore,
He traced the features he did erst adore.

With one instinctive agony he drew
His sword, that Palestine remember'd well
And, quick recoiling, dealt a blow so true,
That down the devilish head in thunder fell: --
The effort seem'd against a jutting stone
To strike his hand, and then he woke -- alone!

Alone he stood amid those ruins old,
His treasury of sweet care and pleasant pain;
The hemlock crushed defined the body's mould
Of one who long and restless there had lain;
His vest was beaded with the dew of dawn,
His hand fresh-blooded, and his sword fresh drawn!

The eastern star, a crystal eye of gold,
Full on the statued form of Beauty shone,
Now prostrate, powerless, featureless and cold,
A simple trunk of deftly carven stone:
Deep in the grasses that dismember'd head
Lay like the relics of the ignoble dead.

But Beauty's namesake and sidereal shrine
Now glided slowly down that pallid sky,
Near and more near the thin horizon line,
In the first gush of morning, there to die, --
While the poor Knight, with wilder'd steps and brain,
Hasten'd the glimmering village to regain.

With few uncertain words and little heed
His followers' anxious questions he put by,
Bidding each one prepare his arms and steed,
For "they must march before the sun was high,
And neither Apennine or Alp should stay
Though for a single night, his homeward way."

On, on, with scanty food and rest he rode,
Like one whom unseen enemies pursue,
Urging his favourite horse with cruel goad,
So that the lagging servants hardly knew
Their master of frank heart and ready cheer,
In that lone man who would not speak or hear.

Till when at last he fairly saw behind
The Alpine barrier of perennial snow,
He seem'd to heave a burthen off his mind, --
His blood in calmer current seem'd to flow,
And like himself he smiled once more, but cast
No light or colour on that cloudy past.

From the old Teuton forest, echoing far,
Came a stern welcome, hailing him restored
To the true health of life in peace or war,
Fresh morning toil, that earns the generous board;
And waters, in the clear unbroken voice
Of childhood, spoke -- "Be thankful and rejoice!"

Glad as the dove returning to his ark
Over the waste of universal sea,
He heard the huge house-dog's familiar bark,
He traced the figure of each friendly tree,
And felt that he could never part from this
His home of daily love and even bliss.

And in the quiet closure of that place,
He soon his first affection linked anew,
In that most honest passion finding grace,
His soul with primal vigour to endue,
And crush the memories that at times arose,
To stain pure joy and trouble high repose.

Never again that dear and dangerous land,
So fresh with all her weight of time and story,
Her winterless delights and slumbers bland,
On thrones of shade, amid a world of glory,
Did he behold: the flashing cup could please
No longer him who knew the poison-lees.

So lived he, pious, innocent, and brave,
The best of friends I ever saw on earth:
And now the uncommunicable grave
Has closed on him, and left us but his worth;
I have revealed this strange and secret tale,
Of human fancy and the powers of bale.

He told it me, one autumn evening mild,
Sitting, greyhair'd, beneath an old oak tree,
His dear true wife beside him, and a child,
Youngest of many, dancing round his knee, --
And bade me, if I would, in fragrant rhymes
Embalm it, to be known in after-times.





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