THE last crusader's helm had gleamed Upon the yellow Syrian shore; No more the war-worn standards streamed, The stout knights charged and fell no more; No more the Paynim grew afraid -- The crescent floated o'er the cross. But to one simple Heathen maid Her country's gain was bitter loss; For love, which knows not race or creed, Had bound her with its subtle chain, -- Love, which still makes young hearts to bleed, For this one, mingled joy with pain, And left for one brief hour of bliss, One little span of hopes and fears, The memory of a parting kiss, And what poor solace comes of tears. A lowly English squire was he, A prisoner chained, enslaved, and sold; A lady she of high degree. 'Tis an old tale and often told: 'Twas pity bade the brown cheek glow, 'Twas love and pity drew the sigh, 'Twas love that made the soft tear flow, The sweet sad night she bade him fly. Far from the scorching Syrian plain The brave ship bears the Saxon home; Once more to mists and rains again, And verdant English lawns, they come. I know not if as now 'twas then, Or if the growing ages move The careless, changeful hearts of men More slowly to the thoughts of love; But woman's heart was then, as now, Tender and passionate and true. Think, gentle ladies, ye who know Love's power, what pain that poor heart knew; How, living always o'er again The sweet short past, she knew, too late, 'Twas love had bound the captive's chain, Which broken, left her desolate. Till by degrees the full young cheek Grew hollow, and the liquid eyes Still gazing seaward, large and meek, Took something of a sad surprise; As one who learns, with a strange chill, 'Mid youth and wealth's unclouded day, Of sad lives full of pain and ill, And thinks, "And am I too as they?" And by degrees most hateful grew All things that once she held so dear -- The feathery palms, the cloudless blue, Tall mosque and loud muezzin clear, The knights who flashed by blinded street, The lattice lit by laughing eyes, The songs around the fountain, sweet To maidens under Eastern skies. And oft at eve, when young girls told Tales precious to the girlish heart, She sat alone, and loved to hold Communion with her soul apart. Till at the last, too great became The hidden weight of secret care, And girlish fears and maiden shame Were gone, and only love was there. And so she fled. I see her still In fancy, desolate, alone, Wander by arid plain and hill, From early dawn till day was done; Sun-stricken, hungry, thirsty, faint, By perilous paths I see her move, Clothed round with pureness like a saint, And fearless in the might of love. Till lo! a gleam of azure sea, And rude ships moored upon the shore. Strange, yet not wholly strange, for he Had dared those mystic depths before. And some good English seaman bold, Remembering those he left at home, Put gently back the offered gold, And for love's honour bade her come. And then they sailed. No pirate bark Swooped on them, for the Power of Love Watched o'er that precious wandering ark, And this his tender little dove. I see those stalwart seamen still Gaze wondering on that childish form, And shelter her from harm and ill, And guide her safe through wave and storm. Till under grayer skies a gleam Of white, and taking land she went, Following our broad imperial stream, Or rose-hung lanes of smiling Kent. Friendless I see her, lonely, weak, Thro' fields where every flower was strange, Go forth without a word to speak, By burgh and thorp and moated grange. For all that Love himself could teach This passionate pilgrim to our shore, Were but two words of Saxon speech, Two little words and nothing more -- "Gilbert" and "London"; like a flame To her sweet lips these sounds would come, The syllables of her lover's name, And the far city of his home. I see her cool her weary feet In dewy depths of crested grass; By clear brooks fringed with meadowsweet, And daisied meads, I see her pass; I see her innocent girlish glee, I see the doubts which on her crowd, O'erjoyed with bird, or flower, or tree, Despondent for the fleeting cloud. I see her passing slow, alone, By burgh and thorp and moated grange, Still murmuring softly like a moan Those two brief words in accents strange. Sometimes would pass a belted earl With squires behind in brave array; Sometimes some honest, toilworn churl Would fare with her till close of day. The saintly abbess, sweet and sage, Would wonder as she ambled by, Or white-plumed knight or long-haired page Ride by her with inquiring eye. The friar would cross himself, and say His paternosters o'er and o'er; The gay dames whisper Welladay! And pity her and nothing more. But tender women, knowing love And all the pain of lonelihood, Would feel a sweet compassion move, And welcome her to rest and food, And walk with her beyond the hill, And kiss her cheek when she must go; And "Gilbert" she would murmur still, And "London" she would whisper low. And sometimes sottish boors would rise From wayside tavern, where they sate, And leer from heated vinous eyes, And stagger forth with reeling gait, And from that strong unswerving will And clear gaze shrink as from a blow; And "Gilbert" she would murmur still, And "London" she would whisper low. Then by the broad suburban street, And city groups that outward stray To take the evening, and the sweet Faint breathings of the dying day -- The gay young 'prentice, lithe and slim, The wimpled maid, demurely shy, The merchant somewhat grave and prim, The courtier with his rolling eye. And more and more the growing crowd Would gather, wondering whence she came And why, with boorish laughter loud, And jeers which burnt her cheek with flame. For potent charm to save from ill But one word she made answer now: For "Gilbert" she would murmur still, And "Gilbert" she would whisper low. Till some good pitiful soul -- not then Our London was as now o'ergrown -- Pressed through the idle throng of men, And led her to his home alone, And signing to her he would find Him whom she sought, went forth again And left her there with heart and mind Distracted by a new-born pain. For surely then, when doubt was o'er, A doubt before a stranger came, "He loved me not, or loves no more." Oh, virgin pride! oh, maiden shame! Almost she fled, almost the past Seemed better than the pain she knew; Her veil around her face she cast: Then the gate swung -- and he was true. Poor child! they christened her, and so She had her wish. Ah, yearning heart, Was love so sweet then? would you know Again the longing and the smart? Came there no wintry hours when you Longed for your native skies again, The creed, the tongue your girlhood knew, Aye, even the longing and the pain? Peace! Love is Lord of all. But I, Seeing her fierce son's mitred tomb, Conjoin with fancy's dreaming eye This love tale, and that dreadful doom. Sped hither by a hidden will, O'er sea and land I watch her go; "Gilbert" I hear her murmur still, And "London" still she whispers low. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SEVEN TWILIGHTS: 3 by CONRAD AIKEN THE CENTER OF GRAVITY by DAVID IGNATOW ON VIOLET'S WAFERS, SENT ME WHEN I WAS ILL by SIDNEY LANIER A GUY I KNOW ON 47TH AND COTTAGE by CLARENCE MAJOR SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALBERT SCHIRDING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |