Volume I

Book I

While Britain’s annals shine with many a name,
Her loftiest Poets might contend to sing;
While British bosoms feed poetic flame,
Why should Her Lyre with foreign praises ring?
Not for my own, but for my country’s fame,
Oh! make me worthy of my theme, and bring,
Sweet Muse! thy noblest numbers, while I dare
To blazon Richard’s deeds, and Richard’s Holy War.

In Honour’s fountain steep my Lyre, and give
The great of distant ages to mine eyes,
With all their martial pomp the dead revive,
Heroic deeds and holy extasies;
That they through long futurity may live,
And breathe o’er unborn heroes as they rise
The courteous grace, the spirit wild and high,
The warm, romantic glow, of genuine Chivalry.

For, Britain! not in this thy noon of fame,
Hast thou a son to noble hearts more dear,
Than He, the terror of the Moslem name,
Who on the deep thy White-Cross dared to rear
And spread in Palestine, till it became
The Christian’s day-star, and th’ Apostate’s fear,
Who mix’d with martial deeds the minstrel lyre,
He of the Lion-heart, the dauntless soul of fire.

The Siege of Acre

On Carmel’s brow, and Acre’s placid tide,
The crimson Evening’s latest radiance died;
Warn’d by the thickening gloom of awful Night,
The weary hosts suspend th’ unfinish’d fight,
Each fainting Christian to his tent retires,
And counts on either side the hostile fires,
That from the towers of leaguer’d Acre shine,
Or (stretch’d around,) the camp of Saladine.¹
Since Salem’s exiled King begirt her wall,
Since Asia’s Lord obey’d his people’s call,
For three long years, in doubtful conflict tried,
The scale of Victory bow’d to either side,
Yet ne’er the sun on such a fatal field
Had set, or saw so far the Christians yield;
The Moslems sallied from th’ unconquered town,
From Kaisan’s heights the Soldan thunder’d down,
In vain they strove to stem the tide of fate,
And crowds of Martyrs throng the heavenly gate;
A strange mysterious terror seiz’d on all,
Alike the feeble and the valiant fall;
Nine slaughter’d ranks the purple plain o’erspread,
And every rank contain’d a thousand dead.²

The anxious warders in the camp below
Mark’d a dense cloud on Carmel’s lofty brow,
Portentous lightning flash’d; a sullen sound
Of mutter’d thunder roll’d the mountain round,
And lo! a sanguine meteor fires the air,
Cleaves the dark mass and shrouds its brightness there;
While the dun vapours and the clamorous din
Declar’d that still it fiercely blazed within.
With horror seiz’d, they tremble at the sign,
And breathe in pious prayer the name divine.
 Well might they tremble—there in close debate,
A dark divan of hellish Genii sate.
On that vast mount where in his lone abode
The wrapt Elijah communed with his God,
Where, when a crowd of impious Priests, in vain,
With harpings loud and steam of victims slain,
Invok’d their slumb’ring Baal from morn till even,
The Prophet’s voice drew down the fire from heaven;
In after times, Alkarmel’s Altar rose—
Alkarmel,^a fellest of Messiah’s foes;
Though ne’er in walls his vot’ries dared enshrine
His horrid vastness, or his: form define.
But hence expell’d, by Mary’s vestal choirs,
His sanguine orgies ceas’d and impious fires,
Till now again he treads the hallow’d ground,
And blasts the vines, and calls the Genii round;
All that to punish or to prove mankind,
Direct the plague, the earthquake, or the wind,
Gild with false rays th’ Arabian Prophet’s name,
Or bow before the fount of living flame;
All that against the Son of God combine,
To foil the Champions of his Holy Shrine.
On flying columns borne of whirling sand,
Speeds dark Demroosh from Zara’s burning land;
From Libanus the snowy tempest brings
The hideous Ullah on its icy wings;
And like a vapour from the foaming title,
Rose stern Mordash, Maimoune at his side;
On a light cloud her lovely limbs reclin’d,
Her sable locks a starry wreath confin’d;
Shame, Guilt, and Fear had darken’d every face,
But her’s had yet a beam of heavenly grace;
What though no more it vies with Eden’s rose,
Nor in her eye angelic rapture glows,
Who could behold her pensive charms, and seek
A smile more brilliant, or a ruddier cheek,
Could think that guilt deprest that gentle eye,
Or endless torture breath’d so soft a sigh?
Aw’d by her beauty, as a thing divine,
From their dark thrones the Genii half incline;
Then while his frame in fiendish transport shook,
Alkarmel rose, and thus in thunder spoke:
 “Woe to the Gospel! to the Koran joy³
On yonder plain ten thousand Christians lie.
Joy! for this night the Queen Sybilla^b dies,
And fierce contentions round her bier arise.
Fools! for a name, a realm yet unsubdued,
Hark to their clamour! may it end in blood!
May fiercer strife succeed this war of words,
And Christian do the work of Moslem swords!
Sing, till our Paeans reach the realms below,
Joy to the Koran! to the Gospel woe!”
 “Joy!” cried Demroosh, while fill’d with sudden ire,
From his dark eye-balls flash’d vindictive fire.
“What joy is ours? such joy as traitors feel,
Nail’d to the cross, the gibbet, or the wheel;
Or birds that, spell-bound by the serpent’s eye,
Perceive their doom, yet lose the power to fly.
Go! credulous, and shout your Prophet’s name,
Till all his mosques are lost in Christian flame.
In vain is Salem yours, in vain ye swore
To chase the Cross from this contested shore;
In vain whole hosts of vanquish’d martyrs bleed;
Like waves on waves, devoted hosts succeed.
Though due to British worth, yon ramparts know
Their fated strength, nor fear a meaner foe,
Already Richard comes—his fleet has past
The Cyprian isle, and we are foil’d at last.”
 “’Tis well,” Mordash began, “for Islam’s sake,
While thou art slumbering, that her guardians wake;
I rais’d the storm; on Cyprus rocky coast
Is Richard’s gallant fleet dispersed or lost.
Vers’d in the counsels to his father’s dear,
The faithless, fatal policy of fear.
That Turk and Christian hates alike, and pays,
Feeds, clothes, enriches both, and both betrays,
The Cyprian sceptre base Comnenus sways.^c
The Lion King shall struggle in the toils;
Not Demons match Comnenus’ race in wiles;
Not all our arts have served the Faith so well,
Or sent such hosts of Christian dogs to Hell.
Philip may come—to-morrow’s sun may bring
His vaunted fleet—we fear not Gallia’s king!
To war and Ullah we his troops consign;
The harder task of Richard’s bane be mine;
Caught in their snares whom Godfrey learn’d to curse,
Their hatred deadly, but their friendship worse.”
 “Nor scorn a softer spell,” Maimoune said,
“His daughter’s smiles Comnenus’ craft shall aide
E’en now, or all my wonted arts are vain,
Evanthe strives with Love’s insidious pain;
Fair as her Island’s Queen, her pensive charms
Shall lure the King from Berengaria’s arms,
Inglorious flowers shall wreathe his idle sword,
And his stern knights deplore their recreant Lord.”
 Contempt and malice Ullah’s smile exprest.
“How ill thou know’st these warriors of the West!
Go! spread for Asian Youth thy tempting spells,
In Knighthood’s breast a loftier spirit dwells:
Shrined in each bosom reigns one peerless fair,
And true to her, as to the Cross they wear,
Strong in their faith, through fields of death they move,
For only Glory wins the smiles of Love;
No second beauty lures their constant eye—
Maimoune’s charms might pass unheeded by.”
 “Nay!” said the Peri, “look on yonder plain,
And own, my philtres are not always vain.”
 “Aye, look on yonder plain! behold how near
My busy fiends besiege each princely ear!”
Alkarmel shouted. “Look, Demroosh! and own
That Godfrey’s faith and Tancred’s zeal are flown;
Those trusting zealots served their God too well,
We found no vantage, and the city fell.
But these are brave in vain—their hearts are ours:
Ha! floats our standard not from Sion’s towers?
Have we not crush’d Imperial Conrad’s host?^d
And Gaul’s gay troop at proud Damascus crost?
We bade the Earthquake towns and towers destroy
We hurl’d red meteors through the flaming sky!
We sear’d the grain! we dried the crystal springs!
We fill’d with leprosy the courts of kings!^e
Look on yon plain, Demroosh! thou can’st not fear
Each spotted Conscience will be wash’d so clear,
That not one fiend shall win his entrance there.
Not Richard’s soul is pure—on Asia’s shore,
Soon shall the Christian name be heard no more,
The Soldan’s dying voice shall warn in vain,
And Guilt and Rapine claim their licens’d reign.”
 “But,” the stern Afrit said, “what arts are ours
To check the course of Frederic’s conquering powers?
Young Angelus Comnenian craft has tried,
But proved alone his weakness and his pride:
For Frederic’s valour had too bold a spring.
To brook the trifling of a powerless king;
On Stamboul’s faithless towers his flag was spread,
The treacherous Turks before his army fled.
And proud Iconium’s Sultan found too late,
Who trifles with his friendship, sports with fate.”^f
“Fear, doubt, alarm from Frederic’s might is o’er,
His army baffled, and its chief no more!”
Thus spoke the fierce Moozallil, as he came,
Swift as a hurricane, and wrapt inflame,
“Twice warn’d, that spot shall Suabia’s Princes shun,
Erst fraught with ill to Philip’s godlike son.
Where Conrad droop’d, a king without a host,
Now Frederic’s myriads mourn their leader lost;
For as he bathed in Saleph’s frigid tide,
Amid its poison’d waves he sunk and died.⁴
Was it not well? I hover’d o’er the brink
His latest breath of agony to drink,
His people’s cries, his son’s unceasing tears,
His moans, sweet music to Moozallil’s ears!”
 They shout applause; the meaner Demons round,
Hovering like birds obscene, prolong the sound.
Delight through either Moslem host it spread,
And chill’d the Christians with spontaneous dread.
 “Hail, Mighty Spirit! thou whose powerful soul,
Fruitful of ill, nor ruth nor fears control!
Most dire, most hateful—yet my lips decline
A rival’s praises—would the deed were mine!”
Alkarmel spoke, “but see, a warning dye
Of feeble purple streaks the eastern sky;
Hence let us haste, ere Angels purge the ground,
With heavenly dews and fragrance sprinkled round,
Lest here enthrall’d we pine in hated light,
And yon vile Christians prosper in our sight.
I go to taint the bosoms of the brave,
And wake new tumults round Sybilla’s grave;
Thou, Ullah! steep these fields in sudden rains,
And thou, Demroosh! on all the humid plains
Breathe thy hot gales, till clouds of venom rise,
And famine follows, and yon army dies.
Mordash with storms shall Richard’s fleet detain,
And fair Maimoune twine her flowery chain;
For thee, Moozallil! who shall dare confine
Such bold invention, and such power as thine?
Go where thou wilt, for in thy baleful breath,
Where’er thou art, are treachery, woe, and death.”
 He spoke, and like the thousand sparks that fly
From the sprung mine, and fade amid the sky,
The Genii vanish’d, ere in golden pride
The sun rose glorious from the tranquil tide.

The Christians watch’d not for the dawning light,
Nor blest the day that call’d them forth to fight.
Theirs the sad task their slaughtered friends to shield
From ravenous birds that hover o’er the field,
And wolves and shakals, that would rob the brave
Of their last hope, an honourable grave.
Nine mighty mounds arose, gigantic tombs,
For every mound a thousand dead inhumes.
While scarce distinguish’d from the general plain,
One scanty pile coneeal’d the Moslem slain.
 But not their labour foil’d, their bravest lost,
So fills with grief and fear the anxious host,
As Queen Sybilla’s death; beside her sate
The widow’d Lusignan, her princely mate,
Graceful in grief, his locks of waving gold
Neglected o’er his regal mantle roll’d,
He thought with what fond faith Amalric’s heir,
Twice made herself, and once her realm, his care.
Ah, from his grasp that short-lived power was fled,
And she was cold, and hope itself was dead.
But while he mused, with brows of thick’ning gloom
Indignant Geoffrey rushes to the room.
 “Weak fool! will tears recall Sybilla’s ghost,
To give again the kingdom thou hast lost?
Oh! that a brother I had never known,
Or found in him a spirit like mine own!
Yet come, nor tamely see thyself bereft,
Of all of power that war and fate have left.
From thy weak heart its fruitless sorrow fling,
And guard, what yet thou hast, the name of King!”
 The King one moment on the senseless clay
Fix’d his fond gaze, then dash’d his tears away;
“And must we part, ere I to earth resign
These fair cold relics? yet the gift was Thine—”
With folded arms and aching brows he went
Where met the nobles in the regal tent,
(Arm’d save their casques), and mounts the golden throne
Conspicuous rais’d, and long esteem’d his own,
And scarce he mark’d, that ’mid the princely crowd
No chieftain rose, no head respectful bow’d;
“Shame on you, Lords!” cried Geoffrey, “whence can spring
This cold neglect of Sion’s hapless King?”
 “And who is Sion’s King, but he who reigns
In Sion’s Kingdom?” cried the bold Avesnes.⁵
“Her Lord again should Lusignan appear,
Again I bend; but stand his equal here—
Go! scent his hair, and wreathe his fragile blade,
Not for hot fight, but courtly pageant made.
Hast thou not mock’d him oft, and said that she
Who made Him King, should make a God of thee?⁶
Scarce while she lived a forced respect we gave,
Our freedom rises from Sybilla’s grave.
Let female eyes his beauteous form admire,
Our northern souls a hardier chief require.
Not his an arm the Soldan’s might to bend,
And win a realm he knew not to defend.”
 Pride check’d the tears that fill’d the Monarch’s eye,
And fiery Geoffrey struggled for reply;
When Thoron thus his mild reproof addrest,
Of Syria’s Counts the bravest and the best,
Above ambition, pious, liberal, sage,
For wisdom honour’d, though unbent by age.
 “Ungenerous Chiefs! to poison thus the dart
That grief has planted in a Monarch’s heart;
Come ye, like vultures, darkening all the sky,
Ere the first burst of hopeless grief be dry,
Ere on the long-loved form the earth shall close,
To tear the garland from his widow’d brows?
When, at her brother’s death, her peers implored,
From sad Sybilla’s choice a warrior lord,
Though then, perchance, by erring fondness led,
To bind the fillet on her husband’s head,
If she could yield those rights by birth her own,
Still Lusignan must fill the sacred throne,
If not—to doubt his claim is mine alone.⁷
’Tis mine the throne with Isabelle to share,
Amalric’s younger child, and now his heir.”
 “Thy rights! as well might base-born kites aspire
To rule the eagle!” cried the Prince of Tyre.^g
“We leave at leisure, Lusignan and thee
To settle points of legal courtesie,
Thanks to your prowess! we may waive them now,
Or I could tell him of a broken vow,
That when a captive he his realm resign’d—⁸
But that were nought, nor oaths compell’d can bind,
So say those Priests that Heaven’s high dictates scan,
And chain or loose the ready faith of man.
But for his Queen—Oh! could my brother know
His widow’d bride would dare to stoop so low!
Or when her warlike peers no more obey’d^h
Her minion’s rule, the solemn farce she play’d!
The feign’d divorce, the pledge from morn till even
To seek in prayer the guiding hand of Heaven.
All day she pray’d, and music’s loftiest sound,
And spicy clouds, the fatal drama crown’d;
Gull’d by her words, her nobles waited round
As Heaven should bid to pay their ready vow;
She rais’d the regal circlet from her brow
And placed on Lusignan’s, but did a voice
Of man or angel rise to bless the choice?
They bow’d in silence, duped as all shall feel
Who trust a woman with a nation’s weal.
 “Doubtful of all that arms or counsel bore,
And worse, his own weak powers mistrusting more,
How did he reign? how many months were flown
Ere Asia’s sovereign fill’d his conquer’d throne?
Say! where were Lusignan? and even now,
But for the arm of Conrad, where wert thou?
A dungeon’s damp had chill’d this lust of power,
And not one Christian breath’d on Syria’s shore.
Now hear my will, and should not words avail,
Beware! my sword has weight to turn the scale;
Mine is the right, the power, I ask the name!
And if Amalric’s child must aid my claim,
Despite thine angry curse or martial pride,
I make thy vaunted Isabelle my bride,
Nor dread to hear the Roman thunders roar—
They spare the sinner that extends their power!
Or while thou liv’st, if she respect her vow
To wed a widow, all our laws allow—
And think ye, Lords! too boldly I aspire?
My fleet now guards you—shall it sail for Tyre?
Or—yon brave foe a warrior’s worth can feel,
And more than Salem would reward my zeal.”
 Bold Thoron’s answering falchion quits the sheath,
Frowns dark Avesnes, and Geoffrey threatens death,
While by the side of Conrad, fierce and bold
Like some strong tower, stood Austrian Leopold.ⁱ
When rose the King, and even that lawless throng
In silence heard a Chief obey’d so long.
“Oh! let not weapons that should stream alone
With impious blood, be sullied by our own;
And blame not me, if niggard Nature gave
A form unwarlike, though my soul be brave.
Yet ah! can those whom Hope’s gay dreams beguile,
Whose names are honour’d, and whose fortunes smile,
Thus for the shade of vanish’d power contest,
Desert their God, and crush a bleeding breast?
By Him who came in meekness, He whose name
Should soothe our spirits, while his wrongs inflame,
Oh! cease this strife, nor be his champions found
In vain contention for an empty sound!”
 “What dar’st thou, dastard! call an empty name?
I give it value, if I deign to claim!”
 “Pause!” cried a voice that every bosom froze,
And ’mid the hail a ghastly man uprose.
The grave’s white vestments form’d his wild attire,
His glazed eyes glimmer’d with unearthly fire;
On high his lean and wither’d arms he spread;
Is that the hand that Moslem hosts have fled?
They doubt if those sepulchral accents came
From Raymond’s spectre, or his living frame,
“Stop, impious and insensate!— Lo! I come
Ev’n from the very borders of the tomb,
Once more your guilty fury to restrain,
Once more to warn you, and to warn in vain.
Cowards! to taunt the fallen with his shame!
And who that hears me has the right to blame?
Not you, his subjects, rebels to his power,
And false to Sion in her dangerous hour;
Not you, ye Templars, who the strife renew’d,
Your robes polluting with a Herald’s blood;^k
Not Eudon, scorning my prophetic word,
Who forced a fatal counsel on his Lord.
’Twas then the Soldan girt Tabaria’s wall—
But I was deaf to wife and offspring’s call;
I wept for Sion, I besought him yield
Their fate to Heaven, and be his Sion’s shield—
In vain! he flew to guard the leaguer’d town,
He could not save it: and he lost his crown.
This was his crime! and that my honest zeal
To all I loved preferr’d the public weal,
That when my voice was scorn’d, destruction came,
Ye call me traitor! I retort the name.
Is this the meed for acts so great and bold
As should have lived in everlasting gold?
This warp’d my brain, this foul reproach has riven
The bonds of life, this pains my sires in Heaven.^l
Woe, woe for Sion! for her hearths profaned,
Her murder’d children, and her temples stain’d;
Oh recreants! traitors to the Cross ye bear!
Whom fury, avarice, lust, alternate share,
Still must your half-heal’d feuds again begin,
And scorn and rancour blast the wreaths ye win.
Know ye, whose madness all the good deplore.
Know! heaven respects that great Barbarian more,
Whose soul untaught in virtue yours exceeds,
Than ye, apostates not in name, but deeds,”
 He spoke; his eyes a ghastlier lustre fired,
It flash’d like lightning, and like that expired;
Through all his frame a strong convulsion past,
One startling shriek he gave, it was the last;
With that his mighty spirit burst away,
And cold and rigid fell the lifeless clay.
 Awe, shame, and sense of past ingratitude,
Chain’d every tongue, and every heart subdued;
But Conrad frown’d; “Are we, that even now
Raged like the winds on Thabor’s stormy brow,
Hush’d to such stillness that we hear the call
Of the changed guard on Acre’s distant wall—
Heroes! so prompt to scorn the Soldan’s sword,
Yet cow’d and trembling at a maniac’s word,
Hence I conjure! in peaceful halls recline,
Leave me to martyrdom, or Palestine.
I need not dread to bear the war alone,
Or lose one soldier, when ye all are gone.”
 But moved by heaven to curb his fiery mood,
Rose Sarum’s pious Prelate, great and good;
Though he had laid his saintly garb aside
For the dark hauberk and the helmet’s pride,
He deem’d it duty; nor that warrior-age
Disdain’d to blend the soldier and the sage,
But lauded Hubert’s martial pilgrimage.^m
 “Ye Franks and Syrians, Knights and Princes,
Hear for his sake whose sacred badge ye wear;
Has the keen sabre swept whole ranks away,
Has Death permitted, struck a royal prey,
Even in your sight his last dread warning dealt,
And is the awful lesson yet unfelt?
Perjur’d, if here your swords ambition draws,
Traitors, if arm’d to fight a Saviour’s cause,
Alike this senseless strife some Demon fires,
And your rash folly mocks your own desires.
Oh Conrad! I would see thee falter now,
There is no manhood in that scornful brow;
Long shall these realms a female reign deplore,
But let not Sion mourn thy valour more—
Flush’d with the conquest of the sacred town,
Heroic Godfrey shunn’d her proffer’d crown,
Nor where his Saviour felt the torturing thorn,
Would he with gold his humble brows adorn.⁹
Art thou more pure that thou thy head canst rear,
And bid the God of Empires fix it there?
Oh! think on Antioch—vain was valour’s sword
Till contrite hearts appeas’d the offended Lord.ⁿ
Even now two powerful Sovereigns stem the tide,
Let Philip, let Plantagenet decide;
Meanwhile let sabres clash, and lances shine,
Rush all to war, but war with Saladine.
He deems us baffled, by defeat deprest,
Haste! let our trumpets break his scornful rest;
If all unite, we yet may brave his host,
And Heaven again restore our glory lost.”
He spoke, and stubborn age and fiery youth
Smooth’d the bent brow, and own’d the voice of truth.
Again in peace the jarring chiefs unite,
And marshal all their various bands for fight.

Yet not for this the Demon’s art was foil’d,
Not yet Alkarmel’s venom’d shaft recoil’d.
With wounded pride consumed, and smother’d ire,
He marked fierce Conrad and his friend retire,
And while his arts a deeper gulf prepare,
Exults to see them rushing to the snare.
In Conrad’s tent in suppliant guise was seen,
A graceful woman with majestic mien;
Veil’d were her features, but his Tyrian band,
Respectful own’d her accent of command;
“Conrad!” she said—the wondering chieftain turn’d,
And on his cheek indignant crimson burn’d;
For in that age when heroes loved to own
Their deadliest peril in their lady’s frown,
Her smile the dearest guerdon of the brave,
His was the boast to live no woman’s slave.
“Conrad, attend! I brook no careless ear,
What I shall say, thou well may’st deign to hear.”
Even as she spoke her veil embroider’d fell,
He knew the wife of Thoron, Isabelle.
Yet while a sister’s corse her tears should claim,
While life’s last warmth yet lingers in her frame,
What means that purple robe, that regal air,
That diamond wreath that binds her sable hair?
But Conrad silent stands, amaz’d to trace
The calm, proud grandeur of that lovely face,
Amazed to feel a woman’s words control,
A woman’s glances awe his fiery soul.
 “Lend, on thy vassal faith, a duteous ear;
’Tis Salem’s Queen that stands a suppliant here.
What means that frown? be proud that I require
A warrior’s aid, and choose the Prince of Tyre.
I know thy daring hopes, thy bold design,
Obey me, and those daring hopes are thine;
But pause, and I with Lusignan unite,
And who but arms to guard a female right!
Thou know’st my claims; howe’er thy fiery mood
May feign to scorn the sacred rights of blood,
Thou know’st Judea’s crown is mine alone,
A ravish’d crown! a kingdom to be won!
Oh! how my soul is panting to unite
A conqueror’s glory with a sovereign’s right;
But Thoron’s timid breast can never glow
With those high thoughts that nobler natures know.
Fate to his form a kindred spirit gave,
And did but mock him, when she made him brave.¹⁰
My eager hopes with listless mind he hears,
And melts at Lusignan’s unmanly tears.
Think not I come in passion; unprepared;
He shall not keep the rights he will not guard.
In youth’s first dawn, ere reason learned to guide,
My mother gave me, an unwilling bride;^o
Edessa’s Priest shall free me from my vows.
So thou my interests and myself espouse,
Together we our claims, our arms combine,
I give the right, the martial fame be thine.”
 Amaz’d he listen’d; humbled, gratified,
While joy with anger strove, and shame with pride.
Yet his proud knee has prest the wondering sand,
He kiss’d with deep respect the proffer’d hand.
Own’d it his dearest glory to obey,
And vow’d allegiance where he meant to sway.
Then as the Queen retired, and louder round
The war-cries thicken, and the trumpets sound.
O’er his dark brow his sable helm he drew,
Mounts his stout charger, and to combat flew.
 Already, eager for the conflict, shine
On Acre’s plain the troops of Saladine,
Already on her towers th’ intrepid foe
Whirl the long sling, and bend the stubborn bow;
Between, with massy walls and trenches bound,
The Christian camp the heights of Turon crown’d.
The gates unfold, and forth the warriors pour,
From Belus’ banks to Ocean’s sloping shore;
First, on the right, amid a chosen throng
Of knightly guards, the Standard mov’d along;
Six snowy steers, that sable housings bear
Since Sion’s capture, drew the milk-white car,
Where on a turret, from a Cross of gold,
The spotless banner of her faith unroll’d;
Beneath, and veil’d in silk from eyes profane,
Four reverend priests the Book of Life sustain.
Near it rode Lusignan (whose vest display’d
The hue of grief), and Gallia’s troop array’d
With those brave knights, not more for arms renown’d
Than tender skill to heal the burning wound.¹¹
On Ocean’s verge the Prince of Tyre commands
His own, the Lombard and Venetian bands;
The wealthy Pisans, and Thuringians bold
Move in the centre, led by Leopold.
Apart, to watch the battle’s doubtful fate,
With Gueldres’ Duke the white-rob’d Templars wait,
While Geoffrey, to protect the camp, retains
The Count of Flanders, and the stout Avesnes.
Cold was each Christian’s heart, as he beheld
His comrade’s sepulchres o’ersbade the field;
But when on high that sacred Standard rose,
Through all their veins a brisker current flows,
New hopes, new strength, inspire the pious throng,
“’Tis Heaven’s high Will,” they shout, and rush along,¹²
And Conrad cries, exulting in his powers,
“Stand neuter, Heaven, and Victory is ours!”¹³
 In close array from Belus’ banks advance
The men-at-arms, and archery of France,
Where Omar’s voice the Soldan’s left commands
An arrowy tempest thins the Moslem bands;
That ardent Chieftain whom the fiends inflame
With deadliest hatred of the Christian name,
Who in Tabaria’s field its guards subdued
And dragg’d through dust and gore the “Holy Rood.”
Skill’d in the wiles of war, a moment eyed
The field of blood and “Fly, my Friends!”, he cried,
“By feign’d disorder rash pursuit invite,
But wait the foe on Kaisan’s rocky height.
And thou, brave Selim, bid the Soldan know,
I but retreat to strike a heavier blow;
Let all his warriors, marshall’d on the plain,
Close on the Franks, and drive them to the main,
While in yon dells again I raise the spear,
And on th’ assailants turn the storm of war.”¹⁴
 The warriors heard, and at their Chief’s command,
A well feign’d terror spread through all the band;
To Kaisan’s ridge with broken ranks they flew,
And wild in thoughtless haste the Franks pursue.
Already Selim in the Soldan’s ear
Begins his tale, but Lusignan was near;
His whizzing javelin pierc’d the Arab’s side,
And on his lips th’ important tidings died.
Meanwhile the Soldan, by his death betray’d,
Sends his best forces to his Nephew’s aid,
But Omar’s flying squadrons spread despair,
And the feign’d panic grew to real there.
Like frighted deer on every side they fly—
While thundering comes the Christian Cavalry;
Without a blow the trembling caitiffs yield
And thousands dead or dying strew the field.
 Now to the Moslem Camp the Christians sped,
Assail’d the ramparts, heap’d the fosse with dead.
In vain the gates, in vain the guards oppose,
Their feeble force against the conquering foes,
They through the camp with madding fury flew,
Trod down the Crescent, and the tents o’erthrew,
The wealth disclosed rapacious thoughts inspires,
That quench the warrior’s rage, the zealot’s fires.
Now near a Bedouin’s tent they seiz’d a steed
Of far descended fame, and matchless speed,
A fatal prize!—Now dainties lure the eye,
Fezzan’s rich date-bread, fruits of Araby,
And marble vases fill’d with iced sherbet,
The temperate banquet for the Soldan set.
Elate they bid the cooling beverage flow,
And while they drain the bowl, the fight forego.
Inebriate all, such idle pranks they play’d,
As prov’d the snare by fell Alkarmel laid.
Some their rude limbs in Persian robes enfold,
One seiz’d a turban stiff with gems and gold,
Round his brown helmet winds the starry coil,
Mounts the divan and portions out the spoil.
On Mahumeria’s height the Count of Bar,
From Saladine’s pavilion views the war,
Mounts the Muezzin’s consecrated tower,
And calls with scoffing dissonance the hour;
His laughing troops beneath the frenzy share,
In mock ablutions mix’d, and mimic prayer.¹⁵
 Meanwhile the Soldan speeds o’er all the plain.
Entreats, commands, exhorts, and threats in vain.
Five dauntless Mamlukes, in his palace bred,
Alone remain to guard his sacred head;
As Eudon and his Red-Cross knights advance,
For him they spread the shield, and point the lance,
And, careless of their lives, protect alone
Their generous Lord, too careless of his own.
But forth Moheddin flew, his powerful blade
By Selim’s corse the pious Azo laid,
(Pleas’d in his Saviour’s cause to yield his breath,
And fill’d with holy hope he smiles in death,)
Then as he saw Seiffeddin speeding by,
“And can,” he cried, “the King of Mosul fly?
Can souls like thine inglorious safety prize,
And flee from peril, while the Soldan dies?”
He spoke, the proud Seiffeddin waved his hand,
But swifter sped to call his scatter’d band.
 “But hark! yon drum; to end th’ unfmish’d fight,
Another army stands on Kaisan’s height.
Be Allah prais’d! ’tis Islam’s flag of gloom,
’Tis Mosul’s youth, ’tis Omar’s yellow plume!”
The keen-eyed Soldan spoke, new hope succeeds,
Behind a hill his little troop he leads;
Again resounds the royal Atabal,
And routed Islam rallies at the call.
His four fair dwarfs, insensible of fear,
Who bore the Koran through the ranks of war,
Haste to their pious Lord and round him raise
The calm but joyful chaunt of prayer and praise.
Scarce seemed these elfin forms the sons of earth;
Born in one hour, one mother gave them birth.
Their little limbs in just proportion shew,
Graceful their walk, their voices sweet and low;
Untouch’d by sorrow, as unknown to guile,
Nor anger rais’d a frown, nor mirth a smile,
Nor in their hearts had love or hate a share,
Each thought was heaven’s, their whole existence prayer.
Though they unmoved through fields of slaughter ride,
To swell their veins no living creature died,
Nor while the Sun dispens’d his golden light
Think they of food, but when he sets in night
The Camel’s milk, or heaven’s ambrosial dew,
Or Asia’s nectar’d fruits, their strength renew.
In yellow robes, as slaves of Saladine,
These infant forms on downy cushions shine.
Four sable mules their fairy hands obey;
Between, on yellow silk the Koran lay
In sable folds (the hue of Islam), bound ^p
With studs of pearl, and clasp’d with silver round.
Unharm’d they stem the battle’s fiercest tide
And Moslems deem that angels guard and guide;
Perchance ’twas pity turn’d the sword aside,
Or He whose mercies human thought exceed,
Approves their blameless lives, forgives their erring creed.
Thus while the Chief his faithful band array’d,
And hush’d the drum, and form’d his ambuscade,
Sage Karacous from Acre’s lofty walls
Observes the battle, and on Mestoc calls;^q
His colleague hears, a chosen troop they wait,
Then burst, a torrent, from the Patriarch’s gate.
At that dire moment—’twas some Demon’s deed—
The cord was cut that held the Bedouin steed,
Snorting he bounds away, his guards pursue,¹⁶
Their comrades deem it flight and follow too—
But soon recoil, for where they late subdued
The hostile host, the strength of Acre stood.
Confusion reigns; encumber’d with the weight
Of useless spoil, they ill may fly or fight,
One casts aside the load that checks his speed,
Another seizes, but alike they bleed,
This by the sabre, that the swift Jerreed.
Not, tempest-tost, the Mariner descries
The distant port with such desiring eyes,
As they their camp, whose walls, whose massy towers,
Like some strong town, might mock th’ assaulting powers;
There is the press, there battle’s clamorous cry,
There groan the wounded, there the mighty die.
Before the gate th’ intrepid Templars stood,
Their snowy surcoats dyed with impious blood,
For Omar comes again—Great Eudon calls
To close the valves, but as he speaks he falls;
Of all his warriors first in worth and name,
Till one rash deed obscured his splendid fame.
The Templars tremble—Omar rushes on,
Bounds o’er the corse, and shouts, “the Camp is won.”
Brave Andrea saw the dreadful conqueror near
And hurl’d at Omar’s heart his powerful spear,
But Omar tore it guiltless from his vest,
And plunged its mortal point in Andrea’s breast:
“Oh save me, Erard!” was his dying cry;
Unheeding Erard pass’d his brother by;^r
And great Avesnes, in his impetuous course
Borne down, encumber’d by his slaughter’d horse,
Had died, but swifter than a beam of light
He sits, remounted by the Emerald Knight.
The Emerald Knight?—alike to all unknown,
Seldom his voice was heard, his features shewn.¹⁷
First in the van his milk-white Jennet flew;
Last from the breach his lingering steps withdrew.
Plain was his shield, but Islam’s fears confest
His warlike worth, and rescued Tyre had blest,
What time with Conrad from her batter’d towers,
In shameful flight he drove the Soldan’s powers;
Yet when his casque was rais’d, his pensive look
Of sorrow more than martial fury spoke.
And once a wanderer in the moonlight grove
Heard a soft voice that plain’d of slighted love,
And saw surpris’d, a Knight in armour green,
With streaming eyes and silver mandoline.
Who breath’d his sorrows in so sweet a strain,
All nature seem’d to share his amorous pain;
But now his mind far other thoughts engage,
Fierce as the famish’d tyger’s direst rage,
He rush’d to check the Arab Chief’s career,
And through his other arm impell’d the spear.
Where still the Templars, prodigal of life,
With hearts unshrinking bear th’ unequal strife,
The grey-hair’d Gerard dies; but while the foe
Bent o’er the slain, repeats the murderous blow,
Smote by that Knight Unknown, the Turk expires,
And Omar bleeding, from his sword retires.
 But not since first arose the shout of death
Had Austria’s Duke or Conrad paus’d for breath.
Brothers in arms as by their race allied,
On sable steeds they combat side by side;
First in pursuit o’er dying crowds they flew,
Nor now retired when Fortune’s smiles withdrew,
Brave as twin Lions, still they smite, they slay
On every side, and half redeem the day.
But Tyre’s proud Prince by high ambition wrought
To prove him worthy of the crown he sought,
And mad to lose a battle gain’d, exceeds
His kinsman’s¹⁸ fame, his own exalted deeds.
Where numbers bled by Omar’s biting sword,
He hastes to succour Altaripa’s Lord,¹⁹
Where late the Knight Unknown infix’d the wound,
Tight o’er his arm his scarf the Arab bound,
And close he prest his priestly foe, the smart
Firing to keener rage his savage heart.
But Conrad’s lance his better shoulder tore,
And death had follow’d with the spouting gore
Save that some fiend forbade; his shield he threw
O’er the torn limb, and glaring rage, withdrew.
 Next from where Nilus’ ample waters pour
O’er craggy cliffs, and deafen with their roar,
Came the black Melkos; wide his shoulders spread,
A crimson shawl thick wrapp’d his giant head.²⁰
By his huge club fair Castelluno’s pride
Guido the bold and gentle Lovel died;²¹
Pierc’d through his Panther’s hide, the mightier hand
Of Conrad stretch’d the Ethiop on the sand.
 Next Ismail bled; belov’d by Asia’s Lord,
Who own’d a kinsman in the noble Kurd.^s
Where mountain streams the rapid Tigris fed,
Sprung from one tribe, and in one valley bred,
The morn of life in rival sports they led;
And, side by side, had since in battle fray
For glory labour’d many a dreadful day.
Long in the strife he Conrad’s rage withstood,
But sunk at last his victim, drench’d in blood:
Not all his own; the Prince was taught to feel
Through his stout mail, brave Ismail’s trenchant steel.
Infuriate Conrad lopp’d his head, and sought
Where near the ocean strand the Soldan fought,
Yet, not unmindful of a leader’s сare,
With prompt, decisive wisdom, rul’d the war.
“Behold thy Friend!” the savage victor said,
Then at his feet he cast the gory head.
The Soldan knew the long-lov’d face, the dart
Uprais’d to pierce the young Anselmo’s heart,²²
Down dropp’d—a deathlike darkness o’er him came,
Moheddin’s arm supports his tottering frame.
On press’d the Prince, “Let Asia Weep,” he calls,
“By Conrad’s arm her vaunted Ruler falls;”
But Asia lov’d her Lord—an arrow flies,
Pierced in the spine his German War-horse dies,
And Hassan, while he struggled on the ground,
In Conrad’s side inflicts another wound;
Where now that boastful spirit that denied
The help of Heaven, and on itself relied?
Not wholly fled—be rais’d him from the plain
And as the Chief revived, impell’d by pain
Forward he sprung: “Defend thee, Saladine!
If fate resume a gift so nearly mine,
I scorn to die by meaner hands than thine.”
Moheddin’s massy shield received the stroke,
The shield was shiver’d, but the falchion broke.
What now can save him? weaponless he stands
Alone and wounded ’mid th’ infuriate bands;
But Lusignan his rival’s danger saw^t
And rancour fled at Nature’s mightier law;
He call’d for aid, th’ illustrious Glanville came,^u
Hoary with years, yet still of vigorous frame,
He plies his dreadful mace that ne’er in vain
Smote the crush’d foe, nor needs to smite again.
Awhile the troops recoil—the King with speed
Uplifts the fainting Conrad on his steed,
Then through the fighting throng retreating slow
Wards with his buckler every hostile blow.
Not so the Norman, he whose youth had led
A Scottish King in chains, whose manhood sway’d
The sword of Justice, and who first bestow’d
On England’s Isle her law’s collected Code,
Who mourning o’er his royal patron’s loss
Would serve no second King, and took the Cross,
By stern Moheddin’s vengeful javelin dies,
And low in dust the noble veteran lies.
Nor had the King the Camp in safety gain’d,
But Geoffrey, who with Flander’s Earl sustain’d
Lulo,^w and Karacous, and Mestoc’s might,
Flies to his aid, and guards him through the fight.

Thus mix’d in conflict, neither host descried
The Christian vessels darkening all the tide;
The heaven descended Oriflamme unfold
Its crimson banner from the lance of gold.
Yet now has France, amid the yielding sand
Driven her firm prows, and Philip springs to land.
Far off he sees the tumult of the field,
The Moslems conquer, the Crusaders yield;
And like a steed that knows the trumpets sound,
Scarce stays to call his brave Ribaldi round;²³
(That valiant band, then great in worth and fame,
Though base opprobrium now defile the name.)
He heads their charge; on Sion’s impious foes
His lance, his sword, avenge their long repose.
The bands of Karacous, dispersed, o’erthrown,
Fly to the hills, or seek the sheltering town.
And where with Gueldres’ Duke the Templars fought
Like powerful succour Montmorency brought;²⁴
The Soldan, still in danger undismayed
Cheer’d his brave army, and again arrayed,
But when stout Joinville, Courcy and Champagne,
Drogo and Alberic heap’d the field with slain,²⁵
When Otho flush’d with hope and glory pours
His brave Burgundians from the neighbouring shores,
He flies—while reckless now of scar or wound,
New hope, new strength the routed Christians found;
Again they rush’d impetuous where afar
Their Standard floated from its lofty Car,
And loyal in th’ unhoped advantage won,
Call on their slighted King to lead them on.
He heeds them not, for ’mid a crowd of slain
He mark’d a waving hand and heard the groan of pain.
The Templars’ Chief, the noble Eudon there
Ebb’d out his life, yet ere he rose to share
A martyr’s crown, his fleeting soul implored
For conscious crime forgiveness from his Lord.
“О Lusignan! most injur’d, yet most kind,
I dare to call, I know thy generous mind.
Forgive me that by interest sway’d, and pride,
The Mountain Herald by my dagger died;
Forgive what follow’d from that guilty day—
Of deeds disloyal to so mild a sway.
I go where all our earthly passions cease,
And my repentant soul would part in peace.”
 “Oh! Eudon, that my prayers could life recall,”
He said, “as freely as I pardon all.
Yet, Eudon, thou mayst joy in strength renew’d—
Trust me, my skill can stanch the welling blood.”
 The Templar faintly smiled—his panting breath
Grew thick and heavy with approaching death,
And his weak frame, half rais’d upon his hand,
Fell back a lifeless burthen on the sand.
“Alas!” the monarch murmur’d, “day by day,
Our best, our bravest, wisest, melt away.
What crowds since morn have found their earthly goal,
And thine is fled to Raymond’s kindred soul!
In vain these zealous Gauls your place supply,
Too soon by famine, war, disease, to die;
Oh! when again shall Heaven’s full favour shine
On its once loved, now wretched Palestine?”
He felt a friendly grasp—beside him stood
Hubert, his blade in Moslem gore embrued,
And even his silver plumage wet with blood.
But as he turn’d, the smiles of peace assuage
On the mild prelate’s brow the warrior’s rage.
“Nay, blush not, Prince! thrice honour’d every tear
That falls from thee on noble Eudon’s bier;
Nor is the life by thee to Conrad given,
On Earth unhonour’d, or unblest in Heaven.
Yet turn and see what countless galiots sweep
With crowded sails triumphant o’er the deep;
Nor Raymond warn’d, nor Eudon fell in vain,
But their glad spirits smile on Acre’s plain.”
 He look’d, and saw the foe in rapid flight,
Stay’d only on Kharouba’s distant height,
While, their red crosses glittering in the sun,
The eager Franks pursue th’ advantage won;
He look’d again, where Ocean blacken’d o’er,
Still floats unnumber’d vessels to the shore,
From each stout galley springs its armed freight,
And the glad seas feel lighten’d of their weight.^x
 “Behold the power of Faith!” the Prelate cried;
“No more by famine and by fraud destroy’d,
Weaken’d by toil, with frames, with hopes decay’d,
From Europe comes an inefficient aid.
Faith leads our warriors on, she stems the seas,
Defies the current, and controls the breeze,
The Soldan’s courage quails before her power,
And trembling Acre dreads her funeral hour.”
 Then laying as he spoke his helm aside,
With lifted Cross and saintly smile he hied
O’er all the field, the doubting soul to save,
To dew with tears the contrite sinner’s grave,
And while, St. John! thy pious brethren bind
The gaping wound, he heals the tortur’d mind,
Holds mercy’s pledge before the closing eye,
And bids the parting soul ascend to joy.

Book II

The Conquest of Cyprus

Вut England’s King becalm’d on treacherous seas,
Remote from Acre, mourns the failing breeze;
His martial band, to toil and strife inured,
Ill the dull languor of repose endured,
And envied Frederic’s host, though fraud and force
And famine, mark’d its long laborious course.
Day after day, upon the glassy main
Rose the broad sun, and crost, and sunk again;
Night after night, the moon unclouded shone
On waves detested, under stars unknown.
Oh! for some rock, some island’s distant form;
Oh! for the change, th’ excitement of the storm.
It comes!—the storm—clouds darken all the heaven,
The raging billows roar—the sails are riven;
From every point the winds contending meet,
Disperse, destroy, or whelm the struggling fleet.
Alone the regal bark with steady prow,
In crimson splendour scorns the waves below;
Proud of her freight, she bends not to the blast,
And her red flag flows freely from the mast.
That power divine which guards the life of Kings,
Spreads o’er the vessel its protecting wings.
Fix’d on the beak, the monarch’s anxious mind
Watch’d a light Galliot, tost by waves and wind,
With streamers gay, as formed alone to bear
On summer lakes the courtly and the fair.
Frail as it is, its painted sides contain
The best and fairest of his princely train,
Matilda, less in blood than love allied,
And Berengaria, his affianced bride.^a
He hears their cries amid the tempest’s roar,
He sees them kneeling, him and Heaven implore;
But as he gazed, to shroud them from his eyes,
The sky sinks down, the foaming waters rise;
On boiling waves a giant phantom stands,
Spread o’er the heaven, the lightning arms his hands;
His head is veiled in darkness, but his form
Reveals the Demon that excites the storm.
Where’er he moves, oars, rudders, sails are lost,
And helpless barks in circling eddies tost;
He strikes a mast—it falls—one dreadful cry
Bursts from the Ship, one shriek of agony;
In rush the roaring waves, the breakers sweep
O’er the low helm, and bear it to the deep.
 Again his lightnings fly; sublimely dire
The fated Galley shines, a sheet of fire;
Now here, now there, by foaming surges cast,
Its blazing fragments scattered on the blast,
The dark heavens blush above, the sea below,
And terror sits upon the flaming prow.
So late robust with winds and waves to fight,
But now a spectre-ship of paly light,
Sudden its golden hue grows dull and dark,
And hissing ocean closes o’er the bark.
Awe struck, each rower drops the useless oar,
Looks on the tempest, and contends no more:
But Richard raises to the sunless sky
His calm sad gaze: “Oh! Thou that rul’st on high!
“Just are thy judgments, yet if Thou disdain
This arm unworthy, spare my guiltless train!”
 To whelm the regal bark, dilating wide,
Now moves the Demon o’er the troubled tide,
But Heaven forbids—commission’d from on high
The bolt of vengeance cleaves the flaming sky,
It strikes the phantom form, loud thunders sound,
He flies in mist and pours a deluge round.
Then soon the storm is hush’d, and broad and bright,
The level suo beams forth his parting light:
But where the bridal ship? the King in vain
Strains his keen sight, it floats not on the main;
And where his princely galleys? far away,
Dispers’ d or lost is half that proud array;
The rest with shatter’d masts and canvas torn,
Are but the wrecks of those he rul’d at morn—
O’erspent with toil, when danger threats no more,
Soon each tired rower slumbers on his oar;
But what benignant spirit charms to rest
The griefs contending in the royal breast?
He sleeps! serenely sleeps!—and not a trace
Of deeper care than on an infant’s face.
Nor of that ship he dreams, nor of the storm,
Nor Berengaria, nor Matilda’s form,
But one that seem’d more fair; a nymph unknown,
Whose azure eyes in softest lustre shone.
Her cross of virgin gold, her purple vest,
Her christian faith and royal birth attest:
And now the restless deep is spread with flowers,
The amorous birds sing sweet in myrtle bowers;
While airy hands the rich pavilion drest,
And dancing youths bring in the gorgeous feast;
While tapers flame and incense breathes around,
And silver citterns yield a sprightly sound;
On seats of painted velvet they recline,
And quaff from glittering bowls the amber wine.
And now she sings, and never waking ear
Such strains of melting harmony shall hear,
In ever varying bliss the moments fly,
And his delighted spirit swims in joy.
 Startled he wakes—and is the vision true?
The clear waves shine with morning’s saffron hue,
And all around him, like an emerald zone,
Stretch’d the fair harbour of some isle unknown.
The blossom’d shrubs, regardless of the breeze,
Hang their rich clusters o’er the rippling seas,
While ’mid the classic plane’s sublimer shade
Shines the proud temple, and the long arcade,
The vast rotunda of imperial Rome
And Islam’s minaret and pigmy dome.
Eternal summer seems to linger there,
The vivid flowers attest the balmy air,
And every gale voluptuous fragrance pours,
Soft odours, strangers to our northern shores.
 The wanderer, long by winds and currents driven,
Finds earth a garden, every port a heaven;
Can hail Muscovia’s rocks and gelid gloom,
Though stripes and slavery be the stranger’s doom:^b
Then in this eager host what raptures rise
As morn unfolds an earthly Paradise.
“Prais’d be the Virgin! or what gracious power
Hath been our pilot to so fair a shore.
Yet,” cries the King, “by these delicious gales,
’Tis Cyprus woos us to her smiling vales.
My Lord of Pembroke, be it thine to bear
Our royal greetings to Comnenus’ heir;
We come as friends, to free the sacred shrine,
But find his waves are leagued with Saladine!
Say that we crave, by their rude fury crost,
Aid for our barks, refreshment for our host,
Yet wait his princely sanction ere we pour
An armed nation on a foreign shore.”
 The day wears on; while anchor’d by the port,
He waits his herald from th’ imperial Court,
Six noble galleys, from the storm secure,
Hail the red flag, and near their sovereign moor.
The night descends—again the morning shines,
But brings no envoy, and the host repines,
Condemn’d, like fabled Tantalus, to bear
The sight of pleasures which it cannot share.
Nor more the King approves his herald’s stay,
“And whence,” he said, “this long, this strange delay?
Methinks Byzantium’s exiled Lords retain^c
Their fathers’ pride, though not their fathers’ reign.
Our shatter’d state demands a speedier aid,
Nor thanks that love which lingers for parade.”
 “Perchance, my liege,” a youthful Noble cried,
“Far from the shore the Cypriot Chiefs reside.”—
“Perchance, Earl Leicester! but my father’s coast
Was still a haven to the tempest tost;^d
Ill rules the Sovereign, where a servile train
Dares wait his royal leave to be humane.
Our Irish Kernes, Barbarians though they be,
Might teach these polish’d Grecians courtesie.
We stay till morn—if no respect they shew,
The King who came a friend may land a foe.”
 He ceas’d, and silent sate from all apart,
With darken’d brow and agonizing heart;
Now seem’d to count the waves, or on the sky
Impatient glanced, but still the sun was high.
Of his lost friends he thought, or those more dear
Whelm’d in the waves, or rack’d with equal fear;
Yet ever and anon, a vision fair,
A Syren’s voice seem’d floating on the air,
And mix’d unbidden with the mournful theme,
The lovely form that lured him in his dream.

 Now bath’d in crimson earth and ocean glows,
Now coldly fair the silver moon arose;
Bright fell her beams on Amathusa’s shore,
Where round the cliffs eternal breakers roar.
A fitful light appears—one warrior braves
That stormy cape, and dares contending waves.
Now hid by rocks, now tost by angry tides,
Near and more near his little skiff he guides,
Till o’er the royal deck his arms he flings,
And to his Monarch’s feet exulting springs.
 “My gallant Albert! but thy news declare,
Swift! for thy smiling front bespeaks them fair.”
“Blest be that Saint, my gracious Liege, that gave
Thy bark to dance so gaily o’er the wave,
When others founder’d—doubly blest the care
Which now has sav’d thee from a deadlier snare.”
 “Amen! Lord Albert; but what snares are here?
From Christian Prince can Christian Pilgrim fear?”
“A Christian Prince! Oh no! my generous Lord,
By Isaac’s soul is Asia’s God ador’d;
With Saladine eternal faith he swore,
They lanced their veins, and drank the mingled gore.^e
But I have happier tidings—proud to bear
Kind greetings from thy Lady of Navarre,
And England’s Princess—moor’d in safety near,
For thee alone they pray, alone they fear.”
“Ye bounteous heavens! then am I doubly blest,
But these are riddles—speak, explain the rest.”
 ”Torn from our friends, the storm,” said Albert, “bore
My bark and Harcourt’s to this hateful shore,
Wreck’d on the rocks, with many a treacherous smile,
The artful natives hail’d us to the isle;
On to the fort our dripping troop they led,
As guests we enter’d, but as captives staid.^f
Foodless, and chain’d within a dungeon’s gloom,
Alone I pin’d, and curst my lingering doom;
At length a slave appear’d—his scarf he wound
Tight o’er my eyes, and next my limbs unbound.
He led me forth—a length of cavern shed
Chill damps around, and echo’d to our tread,
Till breath’d the gales of heaven, serenely sweet,
And the cool herbage rustled round my feet.
He loos’d the bandage—under citron bowers
Refreshing fountains fell in lucid showers;
Alone, and shelter’d by a rich arcade
Stood, like the Paphian Queen, a Grecian maid.
A gold tiara wreath’d her tresses round,
A golden zone her purple tunic bound,
Nor e’er the Goddess wore so sweet a smile,
Nor seem’d her tender dove so void of guile.
 “Approach” she said, “no foes are ambush’d here,
Thy faith, thy country, to my heart are dear,
And every morn before the Virgin’s shrine,
I pray for those that fight in Palestine.
Alas! while yet I speak, thine eyes upbraid;
But how may I, a weak and erring maid,
Unvers’d in state or policy, presume
To blame those laws that fix the stranger’s doom!
Yet ah! if Kings must chase each kindlier thought
By Heaven self-planted, or Religion taught,
Oh! may this frame the breath of life resign,
Untimely withering, ere the crown be mine.
Stranger! if erring pride my soul mislead,
Oh pray with me that Heaven absolve the deed;
To save the helpless from a fatal snare,
To save my sire from guilt, his wrath I dare.
Two royal dames are anchor’d nigh, and one
To whose lost spouse that parent ow’d his throne,²⁶
But if they touch this inauspicious shore
Or life or freedom may be theirs no more.^g
So speak my fears—but haste, the task is mine
To fill this vase with Commanderian wine,
That wine unmatch’d beneath the bright abodes,
Which Pagan Bards might challenge for their Gods.
With proffers fair are fraudful envoys sent,
They perish if no friendly voice prevent;
To me their speech is strange, write thou the scroll,
And with a sacred warning wreathe the bowl.”
 I wrote, o’erwhelm’d with new excited fear,
“Fly, royal dames! for danger waits you here.”
Then as the graceful Princess waved farewell,
And call’d the slave to lead me to my cell,
“Have I but breathed these gales of balm,” I said,
To quit Elysium for the Stygian shade?”
“Alas!” she answer’d with a pitying sigh,
“Powerless to grant, with anguish I deny.”
 Yet had her words the path of freedom shewn—
Blindfold again, my gaoler led me on;
I watch’d the time, when all seem’d still and lone,
To burst my bonds, and rushing on the slave
Disarm’d and bound him, but his life forgave;
I bribed his silence (powerful gold had moved
A Grecian’s faith, had Isaac been beloved),
Then hid my sable mail and knightly crest
In his high cap and loose embroider’d vest.
’Twas on yon peak, where once a splendid pile
Rose to the Goddess of this favour’d isle:
Some columns yet a broken frieze sustain
Sad with the tale of Cythcrea’s pain;
The Phrygian hunter, and the fatal boar,
And that pale flower now purple with his gore.
No longer hid in clouds of spicy gloom,
And cypress boughs, and wreaths of roseate bloom,
The rest in beauteous ruin strew the ground,
Chok’d with rank weeds, or clasp’d with ivy round:
There too the myrtle, faithful to her Queen,
Veils her fallen statue with perennial green.
A mournful theme, but mine were raptures then;
On either side I viewed the boundless main;
Oh! with what joy thy crimson sails were seen,
But ah! too distant, and the town between.
Nearer, and anchor’d in the Paphian bay,
West of the Cape, thy lovely Consort lay.²⁷
I ran, I mingled with th’ Imperial band,
I mount the ready bark that leaves the land,
And near my Queen, unmark’d, unknown, I stand.
A slave was there, from crafty Isaac sent
With tempting fruits and courtly compliment.
A golden vase of ample size he bore,
Much for the metal prized, the sculpture more:
It shew’d, contending in th’ Idæan grove,
The blue-eye’d Pallas, and the spouse of Jove,
And matchless in her charms the Queen of Love.
Etherial rapture fills her conscious eyes.
As from the royal swain she takes the prize,
And seems to say, with looks of soft regard,
“Who honour beauty, beauty shall reward.”
 With folded arms, and meek submissive look,
The envoy placed the splendid vase, and spoke:
“Imperial Isaac of Comnenus’ race
Greets you, fair Queens! of Western climes the grace.
Soon may your Lord in Sion’s ramparts sway
And at your feet the conquer’d orient lay:
Yet wearied with the voyage, the angry blast,
In this blest isle some happy moments waste;
And while your mariners prepare again
Your shatter’d bark for combat with the main,
Taste Nature’s lavish bounty, nor decline
To pledge our friendship in our island’s wine.”
The Queen received the vase; her glowing hue
Changed, as her eyes the awful warning knew:
’Twas but a choice of ills, for ne’er again
Her fragile bark may tempt the dangerous main;
Yet soon recover’d, she with pensive air,
Her fears dissembling, speaks the envoy fair—
“Wealth, power, and fame Comnenus’ days attend,
The Grecian glory, and the stranger’s friend.
But let him pardon, if opprest by fear
For our loved Lord, we hide our sorrows here.
It were discourteous, with these looks of care
To mar the pleasures that we cannot share.”²⁸
 The Cypriot train retired, I need not say
With what delight I flung disguise away,
And told them all; or with what grateful joy
They heard of thee, and love, and vengeance nigh.”
 “’Tis well!” the King replies, “and if again
Thou dar’st, my friend, to tempt yon boiling main,
Say that just vengeance sleeps not; be it theirs
To aid my blows, and combat with their prayers:
And tell my love, her sacred cause shall warm
With tenfold zeal, and nerve her champion’s arm.”

The morning dawns, the eager warriors stand
Arm’d on the decks, and eye the hostile land.
With such unequal force will Richard tread
An unknown shore, a powerful realm invade?
Yes! were the Cypriots thick as Autumn’s rain,
As leaves on trees, or billows on the main,
No doubt had England’s dauntless sons confest,
While the White Cross is glittering on their breast,²⁹
And he, that still the coyest victory won,
Their King, their Lion Richard, leads them on.
Yet one, a priest, whom age had taught to fear,
With cautious counsels vex’d his Sovereign’s ear.
“Most reverend Clerk!” the impatient Chief replies,
“Read o’er thy Scriptures, there we hold thee wise,
But know the sword is ours; yet pause—in haste
A boat puts off—’tis Pembroke comes at last.”^h
He climbs the arduous deck, and climbing speaks,
“Descend, О King! and crush these treacherous Greeks,
That outrage Heaven and man—Dread Monarch, see
Thy friendship spurn’d, thyself despis’d in me.
The mean usurper boasts thy Queen detain’d,
Unknightly deed! thy shipwreck’d friends enchain’d;
His Seneschal, who dar’d the act arraign,
Reft of his ears, will scarce offend againⁱ
Thou shalt not land! so Isaac swears in scorn,
Thou dar’st not land! but is he not forsworn?”
 Aye, my brave Earl! preventive of thy zeal,”
His King replies, “behold us sheath’d in steel—
But don thy casque, that not an arm be lost,
We need them all, if his yon glittering host.”
 He ceas’d—the trumpets sound; in fair array
Row the swift galleys up Limisso’s Bay,
While from the castled prow the archers pour
Their shafts, a dreadful tempest, on the shore.
There stand their foes; in many a rainbow vest
The fair form’d mule or foaming steed they prest:
As spring the Knights to land, they strive in vain
To pierce their mail, or hurl them in the main.
On Richard speeds, while hate and vengeance pour
Fresh force in breasts where valour reign’d before;
Nor needs the progress of the fight be said,
From Europe’s strength voluptuous Asia fled.
For her slain sons in vain Limisso calls,
Nicotia trembles in her distant walls;
In vain Comnenus mounts a fresher steed,
In vain attempts his rallying friends to lead.
From such can Richard fly? can reptiles prove
The Lion’s match, can eagles fear the dove?
But hark! from Paphian hills a joyful shout!
Back on his sword returns the flying rout:
’Tis Turnham’s well known banner shines on high,^k
’Tis Harcourt’s word of battle rends the sky.
Where late they languish’d in a dungeon’s gloom
And shameless Isaac will’d a felon’s doom,
Urg’d by despair, that fires the noble mind,
They burst their fetters and their murderers bind;
Three bows were theirs that miss’d their gaoler’s ken,
One Bosco seiz’d, for knighthood scorn’d not then^l
The woodsman’s skill; at every shaft he sends
Some hostile bosom bleeds, and death attends.
The Greeks recoil, then first compell’d to know
The cloth-yard shaft, the force of England’s bow.
Brave Harcourt seiz’d a steed: “Our fortunes bloom
In hope no more, the favouring hour is come.”³⁰
So spoke the Knight, his vassals took the word
And snatch’d from slaughter’d foes the dart or sword.
Meanwhile the Queen addrest her little band:
“Those shouts announce the war—my friends, to land!
Fear not for tne, I have a guard on high,
Safe if my Richard win, and if he die
My doom is fix’d—the ruthless conqueror’s chain.
Now you may save, but could not aid us then.”
 Soon on the shore round noble Albert shine
The gallant Robert, heir of Grosvenor’s line;
Talbot and Wyndham, following from afar
The din of battle, soon they join the war.
Press’d on all sides the wretched Cypriots bleed;
Who runs from Albert’s lance, with fruitless speed,
Becomes the monarch’s prey, and he who flies
From Richard’s axe, by Harcourt’s falchion dies.
Thus when some Eastern despot seeks the chase,
His numerous train select a woodland space,
With shouts and fires the narrowing circuit close
Till, forced, th’ invaded game affronts the foes;
The wolf, the tiger, pard, or tusky boar,
By common peril link’d, are foes no more,
Each, once the monarch of his sylvan reign,
Bleeds, by a random dart ignobly slain;
On every side the ambush’d hunters strike,
On all they turn, and bleed on all alike.
Thus fall the Greeks—they glut the weary sword,
Or, loth to perish in a cause abhorr’d,
They yield their weapons, and renounce their Lord.
Short was the conflict, and one summer’s sun
Beheld a war commenced, a kingdom won.
That eve on Isaac’s throne the conqueror found
The Queens beside him, and his Knights around;
Beneath, in silken robes were captives, seen,
Fair polish’d caskets, but no gem within;
For conquest trod so oft that tempting shore,
That change seem’d gain, defeat was shame no more.
Contemptuous sneers and scowling looks they cast,
On one, their mightiest once, but now the last,
The setting moon, so late their idol, scorn,
And turn adoring to the rising morn;
Not his to find, when fortune’s smiles are flown,
Above her reach, in every heart a throne.
 Unhappy Prince! if e’en by pomp opprest,
(Like some rude clown for kingly pageant drest,
Who struts his hour of borrow’d state, and then,
Stripp’d of his robes, to nothing sinks again),
At thine own throne a slave, and grovelling low
To one thy pride had forced to be thy foe,
How poor, how less than little art thou grown,
Mean in all eyes, and meanest in thine own.
But Richard speaks: “Behold one fleeting hour
Has chang’d the scene, has turn’d the tide of pow’r;
And now, Usurper, what shall bid me spare?
Not e’en that self-distrust, that kindred fear,
That Monarch’s feel when lawful Kings transgress,
And curse the regions Heaven had bid them bless.
Speak—why should I withhold the shameful yoke?
Why save thee, tyrant, from the headsman’s stroke?”
 Low kneels the humbled Greek, with terror pale,
While avarice, shame, and hate, by turns prevail;
Now wishes that his glance had power to slay,
Now turns, as from some basilisk, away;
Fearful of guile, yet ignorant in sooth,
How best to force unwonted lips to truth,
Through his dark mind, a crafty maze, he tries,
But follow’s guilt’s instinctive course, and lies.
Speaks of his grief for wrongs to knighthood shewn,
Or highborn dames, their race and claims unknown;
Professes deep respect, extols his zeal
For Britain’s godlike King, and Salem’s weal;
But reading ill the scornful smile that now
Half melts the sable cloud on Richard’s brow,
Dares proffer terms of amity—and then
Recoils to see the gathering cloud again;
Owns all’s his guilt, but craves a living doom,
The strictest chains, the dungeon’s darkest gloom,
The hardest labour, or in triumph borne
To drag his conqueror’s car, the public scorn.
But spare his life! he offers weight of gold,
And costly cups, and gems, and wealth untold.
Here spoke stern Richard: “Would’st thou then resign
Part of those spoils, by conquest wholly mine?
Or think’st thou, if my will decree thy death,
That gold or fawning words shall buy thy breath?
Oh! worthy offspring of a treacherous race!
The curse of Cyprus, and our faith’s disgrace,
Vanquish’d, dar’st thou on terms or truce presume,
Or blame thy sentence if I speak thy doom?”
 He ceased; to Isaac present death appears—
Prone on the ground, no more he feels or hears;
When now the doors unfold, a lovely band
Of Cypriote maids before the conqueror stand.
Yes! still the Nymphs of Venus’ favourite isle
Boast her soft glance, her walk, her chastened smile,
Fair as the Ocean foam from whence she sprung,
And honey flows from each melodious tongue.
They love to wander in Idalian bowers,
And wreathe their golden locks with virgin flowers;
Or as they strip them from the vernal grove
To bid the senseless blossoms whisper love.^m
 But she who, as in birth, in form transcends,
Before the throne, a beauteous mourner, bends,
And drops her veil; still humble, meek in power,
Her gentle spirit rose in danger’s hour.
The cedar thus, when halcyon summer shines,
Graceful to earth its pendant boughs declines,
But when on Libanus the snows descend
To meet the weight its rising branches bend;
And thus Peruvia’s bridge of lattice frail,
That shakes with every step and every gale,
Uninjur’d stands where stone, or stubborn wood
Were but the mockery of the foaming flood.
While Richard starts to see the vision’d form
In beauty beaming, in existence warm;
“О King!” she speaks, “the glory of the West,
With native rule, and foreign victory blest,
By Him who pleads for erring man above,
Whose word is mercy, whose behest is love,
Nay, by the conquest beaming round thy head,
By all the tears these captive virgins shed,
In pity to a wretched daughter, hear!
And learn of heaven its attribute, to spare.
I would not bid thee think ’twas I that braved
A father’s wrath, or tell thee whom I saved,
But that affrighted conscience says too late,
That act, tho’ guiltless, was my father’s fate.
’Tis said thy heart, inflamed with youthful fire,
Was once rebellious to a regal sire,
Oh! if repentance ever waked a sigh,
To pity grant, what justice might deny.”
 Swift from his throne the generous King descends,
To raise the fair with courteous grace he bends:
“Rise sweet Evanthe, rise; thy fears resign,
At least I war not with a soul like thine.”
 Cheer’d by these accents, though commanding, sweet,
She looks on him her eye had fear’d to meet;
How different from the foe her fancy drew,
Horrid with blood, or foul in shape and hue.
Tall was his stature, and his auburn hair
Curl’d round a face, in youth perchance too fair,
But war and toil now lent a ruddier glow;
A gracious smile relaxed his awful brow,
While like that jewel which by turns can shed
The softest azure and the naming red,
His large dark eye which kindled in the fight
Through the long lash now beamed a dewy light.
Free flow’d his robes, the sceptre graced his hand
As heaven itself had mark’d him for command,
While regal pride was veiled in courteous ease,
A wish at once and conscious power to please.
Thus granite rocks a softer outline show
When their sharp peaks are lost in fleecy snow.
 “Think not,” he said, “that, aliens to our creed,
We joy in blood, and bid a brother bleed:
Thy sire is safe, and know, Plantagenet
Ne’er brook’d an insult, nor forgot a debt;
And if my heart should measure what I owe,
The vast amount not Cyrus could bestow.
I may not, dare not, loose thy father’s chain,
Ask for thyself, thou shalt not ask in vain.”
 Entranced she stands; her cheeks with pleasure glow,
The dreaded conqueror seems no more a foe.
Still in her breast unspotted peace had shone
And Love with all his woes was yet unknown;
Yet if her fancy wander’d to the theme
Such was the hero of her virgin dream,
Valour and truth, and mercy’s angel smile,
But not the languor of an Asian isle.
Her grateful soul his gentle speech inhales,
And dreads no venom in the fragrant gales.
Perchance Maimoune hover’d near, to dart
The subtle poison deeper to her heart.
 “What should I ask,” she answered, “what require?
My boon is granted, thou hast spared my sire.
And for myself—to knighthood’s sure defence
Fearless I trust my maiden innocence;
Yet if thy bonds my parent must detain,
Let me, who shared his grandeur, soothe his pain.
Then in my prison’s solitary shade,
When on my knee reclines his weary head,
And to the moon my solemn vespers flow,
I’ll bless the power that sent so mild a foe;
So valiant, that it scarce was shame to bend,
So generous, that he seem’d almost a friend.”
 “Ah, no! fair Princess, different far must be
The cell, the fetters, fate assigns to thee,
’Twere sacrilege so fair a form to bind
Or shroud in solitude a fairer mind;
His prison gates shall open at thy will,
And thou in name shalt be my prisoner still,
But in my Court, where soon those locks of gold
In stronger chains thy conquer’d slaves shall hold.
See either Queen her gracious arms extend,
With theirs thy pursuits and thy thoughts shall blend,
A captive call’d, but honour’d as a friend.”
He ceased; the Queens embraced the weeping maid
With kindly words that half her woes allay’d;
When spoke her Sire, from dread of death relieved,
Now pride inflam’d his soul, and avarice grieved:
“And shall, Oh, Monarch, no respect be shewn
To one whose fathers fill’d Byzantium’s throne?
Shall iron fetters, such as vex the race
Of common churls, these regal limbs disgrace?”
 “Nay, if thou wilt, each silver link shall shine
Rich with the splendours of the Indian mine;³¹
Thou wilt but tempt some fool to end thy pain
And take thy life, that he may win thy chain.
Thine be whate’er may soothe thy useless years,
Thou harmless snake, unworthy hate or fears;
Whose secret venom wants the fangs to kill,
Curst with the wish, without the power of ill.
But thank thy better stars that I withhold
The Persian Tyrant’s doom; to starve on gold.”ⁿ
 He spoke: the Greeks with smiles obsequious hear,
And mock the Tyrant they no longer fear.

Book III

The Nuptials of Richard and Berengaria

Three setting suns have shed a roseate glow,
Three dawns in purple bath’d Olympus’ brow;³²
A Pisan bark the fourth returning day
Brought either Lusignan to Paphos’ bay;
And Thoron, flying from a sight abhorr’d,
A faithless wife, that weds a second lord;
For Philip favours Conrad’s lawless will,
And Asia’s shameless priests his hopes fulfill;
While o’er their tarnished fame the good repine,
And loathe the day, and fear the wrath divine.
 The wanderers view’d with wonder and delight
St. George’s banner stream from every height,
With hopes new kindled to the shore they spring,
And through fair Cyprus seek her new made King.
 Within a fane whose light Corinthian grace
Once well beseem’d the goddess of the place,
The conqueror stands, to claim in peaceful state
Th’ Imperial Crown his valour won so late.
There throng the Greeks, by braided tresses known,
The fair straight forehead, and the sweeping gown,
Or by the graceful lip, contemptuous curl’d
At those “Barbarians” of the western world,
Who gird a King ador’d, and need not there
The bloody axe, or crest of nodding hair,
To prove, if Greece such warlike hosts had sway’d,
That Greece had triumph’d still, and Rome obey’d.
Yet two appear’d amid the festal show
Whose hearts reflected no congenial glow;
The Cyprian Princess mourns her father’s fate,
And Salem’s Sovereign his degraded state;
With tend’rest sympathy he turns to trace
The placid sorrow of Evanthe’s face.
Oh, Lusignan! scarce yet thy frequent tear
Dries on the turf that hides Sybilla’s bier,
Unwither’d on her modest urn remain
Thy votive wreaths, and canst thou love again?
Oh, had she smil’d, had pleasure warm’d her eye,
Evanthe’s charms had fail’d to wake a sigh.
He lov’d the grief her downcast looks exprest,
And every pang was answer’d in his breast.
Weak Prince! too weak for martial souls to prize,
Too good to fear, too generous to despise,
Sad was the hour which made thee King, that hour
Most sad which call’d thee to defend thy pow’r.
 And why, sweet maid, while timid glances seek
The generous Victor, does a brighter streak
Now dawn, now fade upon thy beauteous cheek?
Love round thy heart has twined a subtle snare,
If Hope already cling so fondly there.
Yes, he was kind, but pity gave alone
That softer cadence to a conqueror’s tone;
Not only art thou call’d to see him shine
In regal honours once expected thine,
A trial waits thee: see yon white robed throng
That scatter roses as they dance along,
And raise to heaven the hymeneal song.
She comes, the Princess of Navarre, to join
Her conqu’ring hero at the sacred shrine;
For Richard vows that she no more shall brave,
Far from his aid, the dangers of the wave.
“Henceforth alike we share in joy or pain,
One fate shall meet us, and one bark contain.
Nay, our own Peers in “Cupid’s Court” might prove
Us recreant, should we quit this Isle of Love.
Now when he laughs on all the blossom’d plains,
And jocund May is dancing in our veins,
Nor to its Queen her lawful homage pay,
But careless fling the offer’d rose away.”³³
While pious awe in Berengaria strove
With maiden bashfulness and holiest love,
Matilda, second in that princely scene,
With rapture hail’d her sister and her Queen.
Alas! how different was her bridal hour!
In earliest youth, to swell her father’s pow’r,
Compell’d to change her cloisters’ peaceful life,
For regal duties and domestic strife:

But pure Religion rul’d her gentle breast,
With snares beset, with jealous rage opprest;
That spirit which in Richard’s ardent soul
Wak’d the soft lyre, or urged to glory’s goal,
Fenced her from all that thoughtless dames allure,
And gave that highest courage, to endure.
Dear were the hours that she might spend apart,
And ease with book or lute her lonely heart.
Of suffering virtue, Queens whose bland control
Check’d half the fierceness of a tyrant’s soul,
She read delighted, ponder’d oft and long,
And, meekly duteous, verified the song.
King William died: she watch’d his parting breath;
She could not love him, yet she wept his death;
Wept it in chains, till Richard’s awful power
From Tancred forced her freedom and her dower.^a
Now calm in joy, as when her placid brow,
Like some still lake, coneeal’d the griefs below,
She look’d around, she met a kindly eye,
Felt on her glowing cheek a deeper dye,
And turn’d from Raymond’s gaze her conscious sight
To where, completed every nuptial rite,
The pious King devoutly kneeling down
To England’s Primate gave the Cyprian Crown.^b
With loyal tears the aged Baldwin shed
The sacred chrism; next placed on Richard’s head
Th’ imperial gold, and gave to either hand
The orb of empire and the royal wand.
Then to the Lord of Hosts preferr’d his prayer,
“Oh, make this monarch and his realms thy care!
Twice has thy servant heard his regal vow,
Twice fix’d the precious garland on his brow.
Strong in thy might, may he on Syria’s plain,
Or Sion’s hill, sublimer wreaths obtain!
Wreaths that shall flourish in unfading bloom
When Cyprus sinks beneath the general doom;
When earth and all its glories melt away,
And like a scroll the shrivell’d heav’ns decay.”
Then, smiling on the Queen, with many a gem
Enrich’d, he plac’d the nuptial diadem.
“To thee, illustrious Virgin, we consign
A nation’s hopes, and be its blessings thine!
From thee the matrons of a virtuous land
The bright example of their lives demand,
So vice and shame thy radiant sphere shall fly,
Loathe their own foulness, and neglected die;
Thy worth a grateful nation shall proclaim,
And with thy Lord’s entwine thy lasting fame.”  How fares Evanthe now? a sudden start
Has to herself reveal’d her treach’rous heart;
Instant she droop’d her lovely head, and drew
Her azure veil to hide her changing hue;
Speechless and motionless: yet some had guessed
By the convulsive heavings of her breast,
She wept in anguish o’er her alter’d lot,
And mourn’d for honours, in her grief forgot.
Yet when she rais’d her veil with calmer air,
Mild beam’d her eye, no ling’ring tear was there.

 It needs not here the bridal sports to tell;
What knights in tilting or Castilles excell;^c
How oft the pageant foe was forced to run,
How oft in sport was mimic Acre won;
What minstrel’s harp best pleas’d the warlike throng,
Or how the gen’rous King repaid the song;
What princely presents waited every guest,
What gay profusion graced the bridal feast;³⁴
Even royal eyes were dazzled to behold
The martial pomp, the blaze of gems and gold;^d
There ev’ry luxury England deem’d her own,
Or Asia prized, to England then unknown,
Invite the taste; the stag, the brindled boar,
The swan, the pheasant, all that swim or soar,^e
Or range the hill, the forest, and the field;
With every fruit that Cyprian gardens yield;
On massy chargers piled, with myrtles green,
And loveliest flowers in fragrant groups between.
A thousand Chiefs, in ermined robes arrayed,
With each a noble dame or high-born maid,
Surround the board, and each distinguish’d pair
From the same plate partake their mutual fare.³⁵
While squires of gentle lineage train’d to serve,
To fill the jewell’d goblet, and to carve,
Present the spicy pigment, flaming wines
Press’d from the golden grapes of Cyprian vines^f
Clairette in fuming beakers, and the juice^g
Th’ industrious bees from Paphian flowers produce.
Soon through the festive throng commingled rise
Convivial sounds, jests, laughter, gay replies, Confused, not inharmonious; Mirth that hour
Ruled with despotic, unresisted power;
And though unshrined, the Queen of gay desire
In each soft bosom wak’d her former fire;
Love from a thousand eyes elanced his dart,
While broken sighs reveal’d the conscious heart,
And valour, vanquish’d by superior arms,
A willing captive bow’d to Beauty’s charms.
 No words can paint the changes of the scene,
And each fantastic interlude between.^h
Now on the board, with martial trophies graced,
A troop of Fauns a stately laurel placed,
A myrtle, gay with flowers of bridal white,
And last a rose, sweet emblem of delight;
While gaudy birds, as in their native bow’r,
Sing from the blossomed shrub and fragrant flow’r.
When now that God for whom such flowers are worn,
Who gives to life its sweetness and its thorn,
Springs from the rose, and with his dart of gold
Strikes on the myrtle, lo! its boughs unfold!
And Venus with her favourite jasmine crown’d,
The table circling with a frolic round,
The prize of beauty she receiv’d of yore
On Ida’s mount to Berengaria bore.
 Now brays the trumpet; the vast laurel heaves
With labouring throes, and shakes through all its leaves;
The clang of arms is heard, the courser’s neigh,
The rush of fight, the shout of victory;
When from the opening branches sternly strode,
Sublime in burnish’d arms, the Warrior-God,
Bears to the King the palm to valour due;
Then, while the clarions shrill their notes renew,
Again the involving boughs the Gods invade,
And jolly Fauns remove the mystic shade.
&emps;Now sprightlier music sounds; to dance and song
Life’s sweetest hours, the hours of eve belong.
A spacious bower receiv’d the princely throng:
High rose the pillar’d roof, the stems around
The wanton vine her graceful foliage wound,
And on the trellaced arches over head
With love’s own woodbine wreath’d, her tendrils spread,³⁶
And all seemed nature, save the lamps, which hung
Like trembling stars the fluttering leaves among.
There, hid in clouds of fleecy white, that came
From cedar, myrrh, and aloe’s fragrant flame,
Maimoune hovering nigh, beheld with pain
Her spells, by heavenly influence render’d vain;
The dream forgot, the monarch’s mighty mind
Wholly to love, but lawful love, resign’d;
And pale Evanthe, sorrowing yet serene,
With zeal unfeigned attend her beauteous Queen.
“Think not,” the Peri cries, with bitter smile,
“Thy feeble soul Maimoune’s arts can foil:
The poison slumbers now, but thou may’st feel
Some wounds are deadliest when they seem to heal.”
Threat’ning she fled, her heart with sorrow fill’d,
Her lucid form in dewy tears distill’d.
Etherial tears! When morning breezes blow,
They wake in flowers, yet not such flowers as know
The nectar-seeking bee, for theirs is empty show.

The dance is hush’d, the harp no longer fires
The languid limb, the sated troop retires;
And sinks in silent streets the jovial cry
Of homeward guests beneath the moonlight sky.
Fairest of Berengaria’s maiden train
Was Hermesind, an orphan child of Spain.
Wide were her lands, her parents’ only heir,
Early they left her, and their dying care
Chose for her home the Court of high Navarre.ⁱ
Fleet in the dance, and like the lark in song,
Through life’s young hours she bounded light along;
Proud to behold of knights a gallant train,
Slaves of her charms, but heedless of their pain,
Nor thought, by flatt’ry’s inward glass betray’d,
That she might feel them, or that youth could fade.
Th’ Idalian jasmine cluster’d o’er the bower
Where, in the coolness of the midnight hour,
While the bright moon her silver radiance threw
O’er Paphian groves, and ocean’s boundless blue,
She sate revolving looks, and words, and sighs,
And all the fancied victims of her eyes;
The warmth of Lusignan’s imagined glance,
The crowds that watch’d her thro’ the mazy dance,
And why young Pardo, dear to England’s King,
Should first to her the spicy pigment bring,
While sad Ricardo saw with jealous gaze
The plumy fan she dropp’d, another raise.
So deep she mused, a solitary skiff
Had shot unmark’d from high Colosso’s cliff;³⁷
Veil’d in a mantle dark, a form was seen,
That touch’d with tuneful skill the mandoline;^k
Too well she knew the voice whose mournful strain
Now breathed prelusive o’er the Cyprian main:
Oh! none in Sancho’s court with happier aim
Could pierce the ring, the raging bull could tame;
For princely race, for manly virtues known,
And for a heart that felt for her alone.
For years with patience her disdain he bore,
At length he vow’d to wear her chains no more.
None knew his fate, but weeping maids believ’d
That Arga’s stream th’ unhappy youth receiv’d.³⁸
Grief for her victim spread through Ebro’s vale,
While the proud beauty feign’d to scorn the tale.
Yet through her heart a secret pleasure ran,
As thus with steady voice the Knight began:

Lady, thou hast thought me dead—
 Did one pang thy heart discover?
Deign’d thine eye one tear to shed
 O’er thy fond, thy wretched lover?

If the scorn of long past hours
 Be in that cold breast remaining,
Glory in thy beauty’s powers!
 Pride thee in thine art of paining!

Pride thee that I love thee still,
 That my heart from thee must borrow,
As thy frown or smile shall will,
 All its rapture, all its sorrow!

Pride thee! for thine empire flies—
 Thou no more shalt hear my story,
In the grave affection dies;
 Palestine has tombs of glory.

Yet, and Lady, for thy sake,
 Hope would nurse the precious blossom,
Now, if better thoughts awake,
 Now if pity warm thy bosom;

This fond breast to Hope restore,
 Time nor chance our love shall sever;
Trifle with my pain once more,
 And my tongue is dumb for ever.

Her victim lives! from unacknowledged grief
E’en Hermesind’s light heart confest relief;
But pride revives—another owns her power,
And wakes the echoes at this silent hour
With equal sweetness. Fir’d by deadliest rage,
The jealous rivals in their skiffs engage;
Brightly the weapons flash’d in Cynthia’s ray,
And Ocean’s ruffled waves expect their prey,
When the coy maid, rous’d by the clash of arms,
Threw back the lattice: “Why these rude alarms?
Whence, and who are ye, warriors; what the cause
That to this spot your midnight fury draws?
Respect a virgin’s rest, respect the night,
And strive on shore, or wait the dawning light.”
“Oh, fairest Hermesind!” Ricardo said,
“Too well thou know’st—but be thy will obey’d.
Alas! when night is in her awful noon,
And all is slumb’ring, save the pitying moon
That hears my woes, must I no longer breathe
My secret sighs, thy sacred bower beneath?”
“Know thee!” exclaim’d the unrelenting fair,
“Hence, madman, hence, lest royal Richard hear,
Or I arouse the guard; and from my view,
Thou, muffled stranger!—do I know thee too?—”
 “Yes! scornful Hermesind, thou know’st me well,
As conscience oft in lonely hours shall tell;
Long hast thou known—but I no more endure
Taunts still renew’d, I thank thee for my cure.
Behold this glove, which, more than empires dear,
I long have worn, and ever thought to wear;
Now from this relic of my shame I part,
And with it fling the giver from my heart.
And thou, young stranger, break like me her chain,
The yoke’s inglorious, its reward is pain.
Thou know’st me not, but I like thee have lov’d,
Like thee been flatter’d, courted and reprov’d;
Been scorn’d like thee, till ev’ry hope was gone,
And injur’d reason totter’d on her throne.
Like me, but oh! with less of pain, be wise,
I cannot love the being I despise;
Or crouch like Persian satraps round a throne,
Opprest, and kept for vanity alone.
For her lost victim let her now deplore,
But living never shall she see me more.”
 He ceas’d, his bark shot swiftly from the bay;
Brightly the weapons flash’d in Cynthia’s ray,
And Ocean’s ruffled waves expect their prey,
When the coy maid, rous’d by the clash of arms,
Threw back the lattice: “Why these rude alarms?
Whence, and who are ye, warriors; what the cause
That to this spot your midnight fury draws?
Respect a virgin’s rest, respect the night,
And strive on shore, or wait the dawning light.”
“Oh, fairest Hermesind!” Ricardo said,
“Too well thou know’st—but be thy will obey’d.
Alas! when night is in her awful noon,
And all is slumb’ring, save the pitying moon
That hears my woes, must I no longer breathe
My secret sighs, thy sacred bower beneath?”
“Know thee!” exclaim’d the unrelenting fair,
“Hence, madman, hence, lest royal Richard hear,
Or I arouse the guard; and from my view,
Thou, muffled stranger!—do I know thee too?—”
 “Yes! scornful Hermesind, thou know’st me well,
As conscience oft in lonely hours shall tell;
Long hast thou known—but I no more endure
Taunts still renew’d, I thank thee for my cure.
Behold this glove, which, more than empires dear,
I long have worn, and ever thought to wear;
Now from this relic of my shame I part,
And with it fling the giver from my heart.
And thou, young stranger, break like me her chain,
The yoke’s inglorious, its reward is pain.
Thou know’st me not, but I like thee have lov’d,
Like thee been flatter’d, courted and reprov’d;
Been scorn’d like thee, till ev’ry hope was gone,
And injur’d reason totter’d on her throne.
Like me, but oh! with less of pain, be wise,
I cannot love the being I despise;
Or crouch like Persian satraps round a throne,
Opprest, and kept for vanity alone.
For her lost victim let her now deplore,
But living never shall she see me more.”
Ricardo staid, to softer thoughts a prey:
He marvell’d at the tongue which thus reprov’d,
Nor saw a blemish in the maid he lov’d;
Ling’ring till she the jealous lattice drew,
And Heaven appear’d to vanish from his view.

 Eight suns on laughing Cyprus rose and set,
And Richard linger’d in the island yet.
Though wing’d with new delight the hours advance,
The chase, the joust, the banquet and the dance;
And he the foremost of the martial throng,
Alike directs the galliard, or the song,
Affronts the boar, or shares with lance and shield
The mimic warfare of the listed field:
Yet, as the magnet constant, Richard’s soul
Through all these seeming wand’rings sought its pole;
His galleys, long of winds and waves the sport,
Now ride triumphant in the crowded port.
New laws he frames, he checks each nascent wile,
And in his sway confirms the wavering isle;
While Cyprian vales the graceful plane resign,
Her hills the oak, the ash, the tap’ring pine;
To frame huge engines, whence his ambush’d powers
May spring on Acre’s Avails, or dreadful show’rs
Of stones and fire assail her haughty towers.^l
 With no gradations of declining light,
That wed the day so softly to the night,
No clouds that borrow, while they veil his rays,
Ethereal hues that vary as we gaze,
Sunk the broad sun, the shades of night extend
O’er all the isle, and cooling dews descend.
Tired of the bow, the hunt, the martial play,
Tired of the lighter sports that closed the day,
With mirth, with Cyprus’ luscious wines opprest,
In tent or bower the warriors sink to rest.
Not so their Chiefs—the feast, the minstrel’s song,
Eve’s fleeting hours in Richard’s hall prolong;
And should once more our long-lost Arthur reign,
Or spells recall the Knights of Charlemagne,
Scarce should those vaunted Paladins be found
Of princelier rank, or more in arms renown’d.
The injured Count, and exiled monarch there
The highest seats with noble Raymond share.³⁹
Where fair Toulouse in distant prospect sees
O’er olive groves the snow-crowned Pyrenees,
He ruled, from that heroic leader sprung
Whom Godfrey honour’d, and whom Tasso sung.
His gentle soul at Acre hopes to find
A Kinsman’s welcome from a kindred mind,
Nor knew, by grief and base reproaches torn,
His reason warp’d, his life untimely shorn.
Next snilen Bertrand, whose imperious sway
Strong Hautefort’s towers and Perigueux obey;
By heirship one he held, (the castled height),
And one by force usurp’d, his brother’s right.
His, scowling brow and glassy eye confest
Despair and rancour brooding at his breast.
Yet who so ardent iu the desperate fight?
Whose mirth was louder on the festal night?
Or who of all that struck the minstrel lyre
In loftier numbers breathed Tyrtæan fire?^m
Yet downcast now in Richard’s sight he sate,
And moody silence veil’d his deadly hate.
 Far other thoughts three gallant youths inspire,
Who loved the generous monarch as their sire.
Young Pardo first, his birth in mystery veil’d,
Nam’d from the leopards that adorn’d his shield:
On that same shield, in splendid robes array’d,
Before King Henry’s gate the babe was laid;
When Richard pass’d, its infant smiles engage
The youthful prince—he train’d him for his Page.
Then pleas’d to find his vigorous soul aspire
To deeds of glory, bred the favourite Squire;
And scarce three happy moons had waned away
Since by his valour in Messina’s frayⁿ
The gilded spurs he gain’d, and right to wield
That mystic blazon in the martial field.
To all was Pardo dear—in Richard burn’d
A father’s love, with equal love return’d.
Nor less Ricardo felt the grateful flame,
Nor less his generous thirst of martial fame:
Yet would he oft the social feast refuse,
In secret shades to court the wayward muse;
In gayer hours the mirth that lit his eye,
Was like the sunbeam from a wat’ry sky.
High was his birth, his sire and lovely bride
On Ceuta’s shore in Moorish bondage died;
Left almost in the hour that gave him breath
In barbarous hands, and doom’d to bonds or death,
The good Justinian heard, his ready sword
To Christian lands his brother’s child restor’d;
By Richard in his father’s rights install’d,
He from himself the noble orphan call’d,
But (for the youth from southern Poitou came)
His vassals to Ricardo changed the name.
 Nor less Northumbrian Albert; firm and bold
His mind, his form from Nature’s fairest mould,
With youth’s frank cheerfulness sedate and sage,
His was the wisdom of maturer age
The last blythe May had deck’d with odorous flowers
His bridal revel in the Cestrian towers,
And Richard heard the holy vows unite
Cyveilioc’s daughter and th’ enamour’d knight.⁴⁰
The bride had borne, to crown the nuptial feast,
The peacock proud in gaudy plumage drest,
With Eastern spices rich, and gems of price,
Placed on a golden dish of rare device.^o
To greet the royal bird, with naked sword,
The King had risen from the festal board:
Each eye expectant watch’d his thoughtful brow,
Each heart revolv’d the meditated vow;
When from without a plaintive cry was heard,
“Vengeance, brave Monarch! by that honour’d bird,
By him who reigns above!” a troop was seen
In pilgrim garments, but of martial mien;
Lame, blind, and seam’d with many a dreadful scar,
The sad remains of unsuccessful war.
“Behold the relics of a faithful train,
Who fought for Palestine, but fought in vain!
We vow’d to tame the Soldan’s impious pride,
And free that region where Emanuel died.
Behold us now! Oh King, avenge our doom!
Arm! England, arm! redeem the sacred tomb.”
 Each lady’s eye with pious tears was fill’d,
Each manly breast with martial ardour thrill’d;
But most the King’s—when Pandulph’s holy words
Charm’d to their sheaths his own and Philip’s swords-
Long since he took the cross, but wars oppos’d
And civil strife: till now, his realm compos’d,
His stores prepar’d, the injur’d wretches came,
By heaven inspired to rouse the latent flame.
“Before the Peacock and the Dames I swear,
Nor thought of earthly power, nor regal care,
Nor my near nuptials, shall delay me now;
Too long has Heaven arraign’d the slighted vow:
Now be it paid! my gallant Peers arise-
Now by this royal bird, your ladies’ eyes,
Your fame, your faith, whoe’er would share my heart,
In arms complete at once with me depart.”
 He spoke; his vassals caught the martial glow,
And with fantastic fancies bind the vow.
Albert was last; awhile he paus’d and sigh’d,
Then took the oath which tore him from his bride.
Next sate D’Arselles, and high St. Valery’s heir,^p
And stout St. John,^q and Arnulph of St. Clair;^r
Harvey, whose axe was never rais’d in vain;^s
And Nevile, skilful on the troubled main.^t
Spencer,^u whose name was to his office due,
And Ferrars’^x valiant Earl; and Fortescue,⁴¹
Sprung from that Richard, who on Hastings’ field
Before Duke William bore the guardian shield.
Grosvenor,^y whose house held kindred with the Dane,
That won by daring arms his Norman reign;
And him more great, the last that e’er shall claim
From England’s prostrate strength a Conqueror’s name:
By Deva’s wizard stream, the noble race
Awake her echoes with their sylvan chace;
Yet foremost now in Sion’s cause advance,
And change the boar-spear for the sterner lance.
Then Leicester’s Earl, than whom no braver Lord⁴²
E’er couch’d a spear: his filial grief deplor’d
A noble sire; like him the cross he wore,
But in Romania died, nor reach’d the sacred shore.
The brave de Vaux,^z in arms a mighty name;
And Roland, who from stout Belasius came;^aa
And veteran Talbot, who in Aquitain,
When Sarum’s regent Earl by fraud was slain,
To find his heiress, then a blooming maid,
In minstrel garb his martial limbs array’d;
’Mid hills abrupt, and woods, and valleys green,
Where winds, with isles begemm’d, the placid Seine,
To Neustria’s hinds of sylvan game he sung,
Or told of war her warlike Knights among,
Had lays of love to win a lady’s ear,
And lighter jests, the menial throngs to cheer.
At length by Eu’s romantic cliffs he came,
Where her false guardians hid the lovely dame,
Heiress of Rosmar’s lands and Ewrus’ fame.
Nor long he harp’d in vain: ’twas his to bring
The rescued Ela to his generous King;
Who sooth’d her griefs, and with her father’s land
Gave to a princely spouse her willing hand.
His brother, born in that mysterious bower
Which Henry framed, to shun his consort’s power,
With Dædalean art for beauty’s fairest flower.^bb
 Next, nor unmindful of his sister’s shame,
De Clifford⁴³ sate, himself of spotless fame;
Firm, agile, brave, though now in life’s decline;
And Curzon’s pride, the youthful Giraline.^cc
Three Saxons next, fair-hair’d and azure-eyed;
Stourton, whose Patriarch pour’d Sabrina’s tide
O’er the rich vales, and guarding Avalon,
Peace, safety, honour, from the Conqueror won.⁴⁴
Compton,⁴⁵ whose grandsire, doubting Harold’s claim,
Withheld his feudal aid when William came;
And Harley,^dd sprung from that victorious Thane,
In Saxon days the terror of the Dane;
With Godfrey’s twined his grandsire’s laurels bloom,
Who took monastic vows, a Champion of the Tomb.
The noble Harcourt^ee next, in whom combine
The Saxon, Danish, and Burgundian line;
Himself a Briton, to his brethren yields
His Norman honors and paternal fields.
Berkeley and Pembroke, who with Strigulph share
The conquer’d spoils, and fame of Erin’s war.^ff
Two brothers next—on Audley’s crimson shield
Still Lydulph bears the golden fret reveal’d;
But Adam claims, since Stanley’s lands he gained,
The silver stags upon an azure bend.^gg
Then high-born Alan, joyful to retain
With Percy’s name the Lion of Lorraine;
In barbarous times, ere Rollo’s daring sails
His raven banner spread to British gales,
The Norman name ere vanquish’d Neustria bore,
Had Danish Mainfred aw’d the Gallic shore.
His brave descendants to our fairer isle
Pass’d with the Conqueror, and partook her spoil;
But William, to his royal namesake dear,
Would with no Norman bride his honours share,
But wedded her who should have been their heir;
Hence, when he bravely fell in Palestine,
Allow’d to see, but not to reach, the Shrine,
His weeping Squires to widow’d Emma bore
His faithful heart, and where it touch’d the shore
She rais’d St. Hilda’s fane, a mighty tomb,
And wept her cheerless days in cloistered gloom;
Yet oft to heaven her grateful eyes would raise,
When trumpets spoke her youthful Alan’s praise.
Seven sons were his, all courteous, pious, brave,
Alas! their valour won an early grave.
And Peers and Princes hasten’d to demand,
Percy’s last hope, their sister Agnes’ hand.
Wisely she chose the gallant Josceline;
Nor he, though brother to the English Queen,
Though sprung from one allied with Charlemagne,
The powerful Duke of Brabant and Lorraine,
And kin to him who conquer’d Sion’s throne,
Disdain’d to make their lofty name his own.
In Whitby’s pile they sleep, his brother’s care
Now guards their Alan’s bride, and infant heir.
He sails, by pious zeal to Syria driven,
His name renown’d on earth, his “Hope in Heaven.”^hh
 Next the proud Norman, Perceval was seen,
Rapacious, cruel, arrogant of mien:
Fit heir of her, who when her castle spread
Its walls complete, struck off the builder’s head;
Who dared in arms against her husband stand,
And fell, the victim of his vengeful hand.
Fit heir of Ascelin, whose dreadful crest
(A gaping wolf) his nature half exprest;
Who with a hand of steel, and heart as hard,
Dire pains for Bretevil’s captive Earl prepar’d.
Perchance the influence of a milder age
In their descendant curb’d ancestral rage,
Yet hated, fear’d, alike by friend or foe,
His look appall’d, and death was in his blow.”ⁱⁱ
 Next Rodney—start not, Britain, at the name!
“From timid doves the Eagle never came.”⁴⁶
That name which taught thy stubborn foes to yield
Thy rightful empire o’er the azure field,
Was known to fame, o’er traitorous billows bore
A Norman victor to thy white-cliff’d shore.

 But pause, oh Muse! nor thus thy strain prolong,
All cannot share, though all deserve the song.
And ye, blest Spirits, if ye now behold,
Where crown’d with palms ye fill your thrones of gold,
Your once lov’d England; if that gen’rous glow
Which urg’d to fame on earth, inspire ye now,
Forgive your Bard, whose plumes too vent’rous grown
Melt in the sunlight of your high renown;
Propitious hear! the mists of time unroll,
Pour your forgotten glories on my soul,
So yours (nor less your proud achievements claim)
Shall vie with Roland or Rinaldo’s fame.
 And hark the King, “Alas! the promised land
Near, yet not ours, for angry seas withstand;
Fate frowns malign: in vain we pant to share
The harvest Philip reaps already there.
Say! shall we then these sultry moons beguile
In these green bowers, this cool delicious isle,
Or launch our frail and shattered keels again,
’Mid all the terrors of an adverse main?
Methinks the rose is richest of perfume
Though Fame’s dark leaf outlive its fleeting bloom.”
 “Can Richard speak of pausing?” Raymond cried,
“Or spoke his accents what his heart denied?,
Like thee we love, when fortune’s gales are bland,
To win her odorous wreath from pleasure’s hand,
And snatch each jewel from her shining store,
Like thee we court her smile, but Glory more.
Reluctant Fame already weeps to twine,
On brows less brave, the honours meant for thine;
Reviving Acre breathes, her tottering wall
Again is firm, till thou shalt doom its fall.”
 “Behold!” cried Pardo, “where these groves have dew’d
My crimson’d arms—they should be stains of blood.
Will Asia’s fervid suns unnerve us more
Than the soft joys of this voluptuous shore?
Let Ocean rave, and summon every blast,
So he but waft us to our port at last;
So Acre’s towers resign their scornful boast,
And learn that Richard is himself an host.”
 “Brave though it be, young warrior,” Bertrand said,
“The host you prize but wields a single blades;
And though its owner scorn to pause for breath,
A single blow but gives a single death.
Ill can I brook delay, or stoop to fear,
Yet would not leave this isle unguarded here;
’Tis but the rash that think not of defeat,
The prudent, ere they fight, ensure retreat.
The Vampyre fans the sleeper into death,
But mine, thank heav’n! is not a flatterer’s breath;
Not one brave arm a victory can decide.”
 “No! by my troth!” the laughing King replied,
“Or thine to conquest were unerring guide.
Thanks for thy love of Richard, generous youth!
Thanks, noble Bertrand, for thy love of truth!
If to my arm superior strength be given,
’Tis Heaven’s, I lift it in the cause of Heaven;
Yet, Count, of all that pledge this cup with me,
I least had dreamt such sage advice from thee!
With pride, my friends, I find your spirits high,
Unbending brook this enervating sky;
Up! Vidal, up! why sleeps thy martial lyre?
Strike the bold strings, and fan the noble fire.”
 From proud Toulouse the favourite minstrel came,
A hand of iron, and a soul of flame.
Of mean descent, with Prince and Peer he vied,
Some wayward planet craz’d his brain with pride;
While love, which wiser souls of sense has reft,
Usurp’d the little light conceit had left,
And oft his slave to wilder pranks betray’d
Than Mancha’s Knight, or mad Orlando play’d.
He vaunts himself all human worth above,
Each warrior’s fear, and every lady’s love.
The youthful Knights, whose mirth such folly bred,
By turns his wand’ring fancy mock’d and fed,
And late, when Richard’s nuptial bonds were tied,
They joined the minstrel with a royal bride,
By faint and distant lineage link’d with one
That sway’d, or claim’d, Byzantium’s fickle throne.
Nor needed more, he grasps the glittering bait,
Assumes a throne, and apes imperial state.
Yet his no madness of the vulgar mind;
With flame divine, like sad Cassandra’s, join’d,
Proud of his tuneful art he swept the strings,
Taught faith to nations, government to kings.
Not wintry torrents roll a flood so strong,
Nor night’s sweet chantress pours so rich a song.
Each willing sense was wrapt when Vidal sung,
And wondering wisdom warbled from his tongue.^kk
Of Arthur’s pomp, and Carduel’s towers he told,
The Christmas feast, and deeds of Gawaine bold;
What giants for his lady’s love he slew,⁴⁷
What castles storm’d, what valiant knights o’erthrew.
Or, ’mid th’ insidious dangers of the feast,
How his tried courtesy withstood the test;
One word that breathed refusal or command,
Had been a signal to the murderer’s hand.⁴⁸
Entranced the warriors hear; the song inspires
The soul of war, and kindles all their fires;
But when the minstrel quits the field of arms
For Gawaine’s happy love, his lady’s charms,
Then Richard spoke: “No more pursue the strain,
Lay down thy harp, or sing of arms again.
Those bursting sighs, and downcast looks attest
Thy power too well, in pity spare the rest;
While distant thus through dang’rous climes we roam,
Thou must not lead our truant fancies home.
Nay, Lords! I merit neither smile nor sneer,
Though newly join’d in bliss, my bride be here,
Not from the fondest lover in my band
Can England’s name a deeper sigh demand;
And she perchance, my first affianc’d spouse,
Now blames my wand’ring steps and slighted vows.”
 “Nay, my lov’d Liege! in vain would England blame
While here thy conqu’ring arm asserts her fame,”
Ricardo spoke; “but just thy care, to chain
Th’ unheeding minstrel in his amorous strain.
Proud of his airy empire, he controuls,
Without remorse, our weak plebeian souls.
See where brave Albert, lost in trance profound,
With some ideal image paints the ground:
Yet here I rush on rocks; he ill can bear
That prying wit should note his changing cheer.”
 Proud Albert’s heart the rising pang supprest,
And with a guarded smile retorts the jest.
“Methinks a bride so fair, and left like mine,
Might wake a sigh from any breast—but thine! Enjoy the quiet of a loveless heart,
Laugh, while thou canst, at those who feel the smart;
Yet some have dreamt that thou hastchang’d thy cheer,
And vail’d thy crest when Hermesind was near.”
 Breath’d by what voice soe’er, that magic name
Still o’er Ricardo like an icebolt came;
Died on his quiv’ring lips the gay reply,
Droop’d his sad head, and sunk his lively eye;
And, conscious of the laugh, he tries in vain
To find his wonted cheer, and laugh again.
When Pardo rose, he held the goblet high,
And mirth shone graceful in his eagle eye.
“Health! lovers, health! may all your hopes be crown’d,
Your happy heads with wreaths of myrtle bound.
But be the laurel mine—my eager sword!
While victory guides, and youth and health afford
Sound sleep by night and spirit at the board,
I covet not to lie long nights awake,
And fast or perish for my lady’s sake;
Of pleasing pains the mystic charms repeat;
I would not mix the bitter with the sweet.
Let some soft smile your martial rage inspire,
In me my monarch wakes as proud a fire;
Though sighs and tender tears inflame your zeal,
His glance as deep shall urge my thirsty steel.
Oh! for that hour, when Acre’s tott’ring pride
Shall see our rival prowess fairly tried.”—
He spoke, the Monarch with a smile replied:
“Pardo, we know thee brave, yet think not thou
That Albert’s riper fame to thine shall bow,
Till stoops thy soul to sovereign beauty’s right;
A loveless warrior is but half a Knight,
A moving statue, wise or brave in vain,
An empty nut, a head without a brain.
But this is sport:—Avignon’s shadowy ease
Were fitter scene for idle themes like these.
T’were meet that now our brother King declare
The Moslem strength, and state of Asia’s war;
Say, Lusignan, for on our distant shores
Wild, wond’rous tales fallacious Rumour pours.
What is this mighty man, this Saladine,
The Asian boast, and scourge of Palestine?
Some paint an Ogre, drunk with Christian blood,
A giant, foul in form, and fierce in mood;
While some employ the rainbow’s softer hues,
One that by mercy, more than arms subdues,
A godlike soul, that angels weep to lose.
Say, must we as to hunt some beast prepare,
That claims no common courtesy of war?
Spurn pleading mercy, yield the reins to rage,
Or fight as men with fellow men engage?”
 He ceas’d, and deep the exiled Monarch sigh’d,
One moment prest his burning brow, to hide
The rush of painful thought, and then replied:
“There was a time, my torn and tortured mind
Could scarce believe him sprung of human kind,
But youth’s wild heat is past; to heav’n I bow,
And own him worthy to be Richard’s foe.
Not more to others than himself severe;
Patient of toil, unboastful though austere:
No cottage falls to swell his shining hoard,
No peasant starves to pile his groaning board;
Nor lust of spoil nor love of power inspires,
But bigot zeal his restless fury fires;
This zeal in youth the Fatimite subdued,
This zeal in age is fed with Christian blood.^ll
In Antioch’s towers thy mother’s eye could find
In him a spirit form’d to rule mankind;⁴⁹
Though then a boy, no thirst of fame he shew’d,
And pleasure’s smile with boyish heat pursued.
But as the tiger cub, once flesh’d in gore,
Disdains the proffer’d dug, and thirsts for more,
His latent greatness burst th’ ignoble spell,
He join’d his uncle, and Kahira fell.
Noureddin’s slave, but traitor to his son,
Egypt he seiz’d, and next Damascus won;
His brother conquer’d Yemen’s flow’ry land,
And Mosul’s lord was vassal of his hand;^mm
And Palestine—Ah! bid me not proclaim
My fatal reign, my sorrow and my shame.”ⁿⁿ
 Here Richard hastes to speak: “O! Monarch! cast
Thine eyes before, nor sorrow o’er the past.
Conquest, in hostile blood already dyed,
Floats o’er our van, and spreads our banner wide.
Thus blest by Heav’n, bid cank’ring thought depart,
And yield that best return, a cheerful heart.
Yet say, for thou wert in the Moslem yoke,
How was thy life preserved, thy bondage broke?”
 “That eve which closed Tabaria’s fatal strife,
I lived, a wretched captive, doom’d to life;
I and Chatillon—to the Soldan’s tent
They led us bound, unknowing where we went.
He press’d a plain divan, by which was set
His plainer meal, dried dates and iced sherbet.
To me his hands the cooling bowl extend:
Fearless I drank, and pass’d it to my friend.
But then the Soldan’s rage in thunder broke,
‘Drink not, Chatillon, drink not Thou!’ he spoke;
‘To Thee that pledge of safety I deny,
Thou perjur’d Knight, renounce thy faith or die.’
‘I have not courted danger, liv’d in strife,’
The Knight return’d, ‘to barter Heav’n for life;
And for the broken truce, if guilt there be,
’Twere worse to league with infidels like thee.’
 “The Monarch brook’d no more, he snatch’d his blade,
And at my feet down dropp’d Chatillon’s head.^oo
I saw and shudder’d—then in Ascalon
For many a moon my wretched life crept on.
 “Meanwhile, deserted Sion strove in vain—
Compell’d at length to own the Soldan’s reign;^pp
Nor was he stern—he spared the prostrate foe,
And fix’d the price of liberty so low,
That, but protracted conflict drain’d the land,
Her poorest sons had paid the mild demand.⁵⁰
Then rose through all her streets a fearful cry,
As these lament to stay, and those to fly:
Friend clung to friend; one wail’d his captive doom,
One eyed with ling’ring looks the Sacred Tomb.
From David’s gate the conquering Chiefs look’d down⁵¹
On the sad pomp slow winding from the town.
Silent the exiles pass’d, nor dared to raise
To their deserted homes their tearful gaze;
But from within discordant wailings rose,
And wilder grief, till pity touch’d their foes.
A thousand captives generous Adel freed,
And Mestoc hastes to emulate the deed;
Till Saladine, still prompt at pity’s call,
Bids wide the jealous gates unfold for all;
To want and age extends a prompt relief,
And gifts and kindness dry the tears of grief,⁵²
 “Now came in sable stoles a female train,
Who wept their wedded lords enthrall’d or slain:
And one was there of more exalted mien,
Supreme in grief, my dear, my wretched Queen,
Though woman’s countless charms in vain had shone
To change a heart where honour rul’d alone,
He who but once refus’d a woman’s prayer,⁵³
With manly sorrow felt her mute despair;
‘Weep not! thy lord has shar’d the bowl with me,
And the twelfth moon,’ he said, ‘shall find him free.—’”^qq
Here Richard, kindling, cries, “And such a deed
Atones Chatillon’s blood!—may fortune speed
Our arms to mutual proof—my friend, proceed.”
 “Those moons roll’d on, and to my gloomy cell
Came my sweet Sybill’, and my fetters fell.
I flew to Tyre—but saved by Conrad’s sword
From Moslem rule, it spurn’d its former lord;
To Acre then my little band I drew—
To guard thе town the wary Soldan flew—
My doom seem’d near, when all at once descried,
Three Christian fleets mov’d proudly o’er the tide.⁵⁴
First mid an English, Norman, Frison train
Came thy brave nephew, Henry of Champagne;
Next Austria’s haughty ruler sprung to shore;
The third small fleet the fervid Conrad bore.
Ev’n then had Acre fall’n, but Egypt’s train
With arms and food supplied her from the main.
Two winters now the lingering siege had view’d,
And the third spring had dyed the plains with blood,
When Philip came; yet still her ramparts stand,
Nor yield to less than English Richard’s hand.”

He ceas’d! but Richard spoke not; lost in thought,
A wond’rous plan his mighty spirit wrought;
Then smiling, from his pilgrim purse he drew
Bright leathern thongs of ether’s deepest blue:
“The knight,” he cried, “who seeks this badge to bear,
Must never shrink from toil, or stoop to fear;
This round his knee, a proud distinction, worn,⁵⁵
Let France deride, or Islam feign to scorn,
Soon one with dread, with envy one shall see,
And yield the palm to English Chivalry.
This when the sabre lops the princely crest,
And one deep red obscures th’ emblazon’d vest,
Despite the close-barr’d vizor, shall proclaim
In breach or desperate field our England’s fame.
Yet not to all I give—his happy lot
Who gains may bless; nor he who gains it not,
May deem his worth disgrac’d, his deeds forgot.
Let him that wears it, combat to maintain,
And him that wears not, emulate to gain:
So shall our foes, like timorous sparrows flee,
And Acre fall, and Palestine be free.”^rr
 He spoke, each bosom felt the proud appeal,
Beat high with hope, and glow’d with generous zeal;
Then first to Pembroke (as their years demand),
And Clifford’s Earl, he gave the purple band;
Harcourt and Harley next, with ardent eyes,
And noble Percy, glory in the prize;
Leicester and Ferrars then, and Talbot share
The envied badge; then Berkeley, Stourton wear;
Nevile, and Grosvenor, Percival, St. Clair;
Albert, St. John, and noble Fortescue,
And Rodney next, receive the glorious blue.
It adds fresh grace to Spencer’s antient name,
To Roland’s pride and youthful Stanley’s fame.
Harvey, De Vaux, with warmer zeal inspires;
And last, not least, the noble Audley fires.
Bright emulation springs in every mind,
While, these exult to wear, and those to bind;
And Pardo, as on Albert’s knee he prest
The radiant Garter, thus his friend addrest:
“I will not envy, but by yonder moon,
E’er thrice she wane, thou wear’st it not alone.”
 Twice twelve, around their valiant Monarch stand,
Matchless in arms, an azure-cinctured band,
And he the loftiest yields without controul
To that high impulse all his regal soul.
“Vidal! thy harp!”—and, touch’d with minstrel fire,
His rapid fingers struck the trembling wire.
Swift to the pillar’d porch he led the way;
The landscape glittered in the moon’s bright ray,
And through the light acacia’s feathery shade,
As through a veil of gauze, her radiance play’d,
While the tall palm-trees rear’d their trunks on high,
And wav’d their dusky plumes against the sky.
Before them, Ocean’s bright expanse was spread,
Behind, Olympus rear’d his snow-capp’d head.
Here mid his Peers, the Monarch pour’d along
The mingled tide of harmony and song.

“Fair Regent of the summer sky!
How oft, when all was still and mute,
In thy clear ray my tender lute
Has wak’d soft strains of love-sick melody;
How oft, when from th’ unfinish’d fight
The sun withdrew his envious light,
I bade thy fickle beam the day supply,
And forced from wond’ring Night reluctant Victory.

“Bright Queen of Heaven! I come not now
To breathe the amorous sigh, or stain
With blood and death thy silent reign;
I hail thee witness to a lofty vow—
Courage, and Hope, and Constancy,
Enduring Faith and Honour high,
And all that should inspire the loyal breast,
Which with its holy sign, approving Heaven has blest.

“It comes! th’ auspicious hour I hail!
Once more upon the sparkling brine
We launch our barks for Palestine,
And spread the golden Lions to the gale;
Expectant angels, even now,
Watch from proud Carmel’s blossom’d brow;
Weep, weep, ye faithless! smile, ye faithful train!
Sad Sion, lift thy head, thou shalt be. Queen again!

“Thou azure badge, not soon to fade,
Ev’n from this night thy glories rise!
Proud as those palms that to the skies
In the pure light their giant foliage spread;
Eternal as those hills of snow
Or yon vast ocean’s sullen flow,
Thou shalt be Virtue’s highest meed, and worn
’Mid undiscover’d worlds, and nations yet unborn.

“Nor does fallacious Hope inspire;
Nor is it daring Pride that sings—
A Cherub’s plume has swept the strings,
And nobler numbers warble from the lyre.
More clear yon vivid orb on high
Moves slowly thro’ the purple sky,
In whose dark realm the stars assembling bright,
Mock Europe’s dusky heav’n, her pale and cloudy night.

“O Thou, who gav’st those orbs to roll!
If where for Man a Saviour bled,
Diviner, purer light, they shed,
Now pour the living lustre through the soul!
Mean as we are, but breathing dust,
Exalt our hope, revive our trust,
Oh! guide our swords—at least accord the prayer
To reach the sacred shore, and fall or triumph there!”

Low to the earth was bowed each noble head,
Each fervent vow in solemn silence paid;
Departing then they sink in peaceful sleep,
Till morn should rouse to plough the foaming deep.

Book IV

The Median Fire

Cautious and calm, meanwhile the Soldan views
The hostile army, and his own renews.
From Egypt’s strand (his delegated reign)
He summons Adel to the Syrian plain,
And while his brother ploughs the watery way,
His numerous bands disposed in long array;
Warriors of every race, and every soil,
Sons of the mount, the desert, and the isle;
From Cashmere’s flowery vales to Nubia’s sand,
From Mocha’s sultry coast to Zamarcand.
The half-clad Ethiop wields his dreadful flail,
The Syrian clasps his imbricated mail;
The blue-eyed Georgian from his mountain lair
Hurls with Circassia’s tribe his slender spear;
The Bedouin comes, with keen and restless eye,
Spare sinewy form, and turban’s crimson dye,
Whose home is wheresoe’er his tent may rise,
Or the red banner of his chieftain flies;
Whose only treasure is his faithful steed,
His patient camel, and his sure jerreed;
Inured to pain, he mocks the burning scar,
For want and thirst have keener stings than war.^a
The Persian, cradled in a happier clime,
Of lighter hue, and stature more sublime,
Whose mighty limbs bright flowing silks enfold,
Whose sabre shines with gems, whose robe with gold;
Mahommed’s interdicted cup he drains,
And Shiraz’ vine flows purple in his veins.
Full in the front of war he loves to wield
His glittering steel, and thunders to the field.
The Turk, not yet to opiate drugs a prey.
In stupor lost, and dreaming life away;
Proud of that strength which Persia’s lion fled,
And Rome’s degenerate eagles learn’d to dread.^b
And Tartar tribes, whose names not oft are heard
Beyond those valleys where their steeds are rear’d;
They fight, they bleed, yet History shuts her page,
Nor their fierce broils our Western thoughts engage
More than those ants, whose busy nations toil,
And war, and die, beneath the quiet soil.
Save when some mightier Khan unsheaths the sword,
O’er wondering Asia pours his barbarous horde,
Bows half the East beneath his iron reign,
Flames like a meteor, flames, and fades again.
 But first in rank, in courage and in grace,
To combat train’d, and cull’d from every race,
In radiant yellow clad, the Mamlukes shine,
The household slaves, the guard of Saladine.
Would you their parents or their home inquire?
He was their home, their country, and their sire;
In arms resembling sheath’d, in conflict known
By the rich vest or pictur’d shield alone:
Yet some were there, or they their sires belie,
Whose eyes first open’d on a milder sky,
Perchance were born the heirs of wealth and fame,
And lisp’d with infant tongues a Saviour’s name.
Perfidious Venice! guard thy jealous reign,
Chase each presumptuous rival from the main;
Chain thy sad captives to the gilded oar;
Be misery theirs, but on a Christian shore.
Sell not to impious hands the wretched slave,⁵⁶
Nor let thy hatred reach beyond the grave.

In robes that with no splendid jewels shone,
The placid Soldan fill’d his simple throne.^c
Five youthful chiefs, and each a monarch’s heir,
Their vassal aid to Asia’s ruler bear:
Prince of Aleppo, ardent Ghazi stands;
Zeineddin, leader of Arbelia’s bands;
Osman from eastern Omar’s rocky isle,
And Zenghi, lord of Sandjar’s burning soil;
And Aladin, whom youth’s warm hopes inspire,^d
(Seiffeddin’s glory), joins his raptur’d sire;
His sire, who sees his early honours bloom,
And dreams of conquest and of power to come;
When Mosul shall no more to Syria bow,
But claim that tribute which she renders now.
Yet hopes like these he hid, while still the youth
The gen’rous Soldan serv’d with zeal and truth;
And like the infant bird, who sees in air
Its parent soar, and longs her flight to share,
In fight he watch’d him, learn’d from him to reign,
And loved the greatness he aspired to gain.
 While near the throne each princely leader stands,
In radiant columns pass their subject bands;
Slow move their steeds, thick clouds of dust arise,
And “Alla Acbar” echoes to the skies!
 His force repair’d, the Soldan on the plain
Provokes the battle, but provokes in vain;
Four rising suns the marshall’d ranks beheld,
And night reluctant to their tents compell’d.
He rides round Turon’s adverse camp—he calls
The Franks to war—they stir not from the walls!
With growing numbers rich, with conquest warm,
What breeds this sudden fear, or feign’d alarm?
But lo! those towers—such towers has story told
’Gainst Sion’s ramparts Godfrey rear’d of old—
Such vast machines can human force repell?
Or Acre stand their shock—when Sion fell?
 Three days wear on—while higher yet and higher,
Far o’er the wall those lofty towers aspire;
The axe and hammer ring with ceaseless sound,
And Carmel’s rocks th’ appalling din rebound.
For one vast blow the hosts of Christ prepare,
And knightly hands the glorious labour share.
 A fourth bright morning dawns—the gates unfold,
On levers rais’d, on wheels unnumber’d roll’d,
And thickly hemm’d by ranks of chosen powers,
The labouring steers drag on the ponderous towers^e
With all those pests of war, the mining Sow,
The Cat which clings, and guards the troops below,⁵⁷
Petraria, Catapult, and Mangonell,
For Heaven employed though first devis’d in Hell.
The clarions bray, while borne in state along
Before the noblest of the noble throng,
The Oriflamme in sanguine splendour flew,
And to the morning sun Montigny threw
The royal lilies on their field of blue.
Last mov’d that banner, victory’s holy sign,
The sacred portrait, traced by hands divine,
Where shone the saint, who not less good than brave,
To shivering want his own rich mantle gave;^f
Though boiling pitch, and darts, and sheets of flame
Pour on their heads in many a scorching stream,
With earth, with stones collected from the plain,
With ghastly bodies of the gasping slain,
The Christians heap the moat—vast shields on high
Protect their ranks, an iron panoply.
Th’ observant Soldan, at their force dismay’d,
Draws forth his host, and flies to Acre’s aid;
But Otho leads his brave Burgundiam on,
The Red Cross Knights, and Brethren of St. John,
And joined by Leopold, in firm array,
Compel the conflict, and obstruct his way.
 The moat is fill’d—beneath the torturing goad
Again the steers urge on their groaning load:
O’er the rough plain slow moves each giant weight;
They reach the walls, and match those walls in height.
Three stages rear’d, the Ram with ceaseless blow
And brazen head, assaults the town below;
Thick bales of wool in vain its fury break,
The stones are crumbled, and the ramparts shake;
Midway the rapid sling impells the stone,
And javelins pour, and flaming darts are thrown.
With maces arm’d, an hundred knights aloof
Securely fight beneath the solid roof.
Where Satan’s fort the northern shore commands,
’Gainst bold Champagne great Aboul Hagia stands;
While Alberic and brave Montmorency pour
Where Mestoc guards the Patriarch’s western tower;
Th’ Accursed fortress in the midst ascends:
There Philip storms, and Karacous defends,
There mutual valour wakes the fiercest strife,
And the cold thirsty steel drinks deep of life.
 High o’er his peers th’ intrepid monarch stands,
And pain and death show’r dreadful from his hands;
While Karacous beholds where’er they fly
The fearful tremble, and the valiant die.
“Ye sons of Islam, yield not thus!” he cried;
“Those threat’ning towers will vanish when defied.
Behold this urn, this urn of liquid flame,
Which steel resists not, nor can ocean tame;
When on their heads the fiery storm shall burst,
Well may they call this fatal tower “Accurst.”
Accurst as when (for so their legends tell)
It forged the coin through which their Prophet fell.⁵⁸
All ye, whose trust in Alla rests alone,
All ye, whose music is a Christian groan,
Behold, the vengeance from my hands I pour,
Behold, themselves, their castles are no more!”
 Vaunting he spoke, while eager to devour,
The lambent flames run swift along the tower;
The Moslems bend to hail th’ expected fire,
But lo! they fade, they flicker, and expire.
While high to Heaven the Christian shouts are heard,
Confused, astonish’d, they beheld and fear’d.
Again, again, their boasted fires they try;
Again, again, those fires innocuous die;
The tempered beams the liquid flame repel,
And other arts oppose the arts of Hell.
When from the саstle now its drawbridge falls,
Lets down its iron hooks, and grasps the walls.
The Franks press on, and none their rage oppose,
Hope nerves their arms, and terror chills their foes.
When Karacous: “Shall yon red banner wave
On Acre’s height? shall Magic daunt the brave?
Mahommed sees, and but permits their power
Till yon bright sun unfold the destined hour.
Eternal torments wait the wretch that flies;
But for the brave, his death is paradise!”
 He spoke—his troops again around him close,
And to their tower drive back the rising foes;
Their bucklers lock’d present an iron wall,
And ranks behind succeed to those that fall.
But in their triumph, unobserved below,
The Ram relentless urged the fatal blow:
The tottering height a fruitless warning gave,
One moment, and its ruins are their grave;
Down, down, in silent state the weight descends,
Falls with loud crash, earth shakes, and smoke ascends.
In feeble moans it drowns their dying cry!—
But Karacous, who clung unhurt on high,
Springs to the breach—the Gallic King defies,
And walls and warriors to the town supplies.
Curved like the moon, he waves his Syrian blade,
While Philip’s hand his keen francisque displayed;^g
Behind, with rage his bold Ribaldi flame-
But Karacous, though short his awkward frame,
(For Nature form’d him in some wayward hour
Of limbs misshapen, but gigantic power);⁵⁹
Though in his scarf the bristling lances shine
Thick as the quills on “fretful porcupine,”
Or the keen arrows of the polar frost,
Shakes off the dreadful hail, and stems an host;
While like some mountain peak he braves the storm,
The remnant of his train behind him form;
Careless of death, again in fight they close,
And hand to hand, and steel to steel oppose.
 On either side, where Philip’s warriors led
The fierce assault, alike the battle bled:
The batter’d walls the dreadful Ram attest;
Death stalks abroad, and stills the brave to rest.
While these for glory and for Heaven contend,
And those their country and their homes defend;
Nor mark’d they how the sands of time had run,
Till darkness follow’d on the sinking sun;
The Christians then unwilling quit the fray,
And slowly drag their huge machines away.

Nor was the fight with less of fury waged,
Where to the left, with Saladine engaged,
The Templars, raging at their late defeat,
Back to their tents the astonish’d Arabs beat.
Rinaldo, now by vote their leader made,
Appeas’d with ample offerings Eudon’s shade,
While for disabled Conrad’s every wound,
The Austrian stretch’d a Moslem on the ground.
James of Avesnes, and Otho, side by side,
O’er heaps of slain like vengeful angels ride;
Zeineddin, Osman, Aladin, in vain
With knightly gore their virgin sabres stain,
Condemn’d to see their friends around them die,
And by the flying throngs compell’d to fly.
But Saladme, who feels a leader’s cares,
Hastes o’er the field, and every danger dares,
Careless his life from showering darts to save,
That seem’d respectful of a breast so brave.
At first he strives to change the doubtful field,
Then bows to fate, and but contends to shield;
Yet oft to Heaven he turns th’ upbraiding eye,
And calls the lingering darkness from the sky,
Rejoiced when night with all her shadows came,
To save his warriors, or conceal their shame.

Deep in his tent, remote from every eye,
Cast on the ground in breathless agony,
He loathes his food, he seeks his grief to hide,
Nor dare his sons approach their father’s side;
Deaf to affection’s voice, to pity’s tone
He moves not, speaks not, lives to pain alone.^h
’Tis night’s chill noon, yet rest his bosom flies—
Still in his tent, exhausted, pale, he lies;
He starts, he groans, cold dews suffuse his frame,
And hoarse and low his painful accents came.
 “О Thou, to spread whose glory I resign
Health, peace, whate’er of earthly good were mine,
Thou who hast forced on my reluctant brow
The plumes of empire, wilt thou leave me now?
Oh! had I Ali’s strength, or Kaled’s sword,ⁱ
No morn from rest should rouse that race abhorr’d—
Yet thou permitt’st their triumph!—Thou hast arm’d
Their hands with terror, and their engines charm’d!
Twice twenty seasons cold nor burning heat
Have seen me cast the slippers from my feet,
If e’er when thy black banner brav’d the wind,
I shrunk in luxury and in sloth behind,
Or e’en in fight forgot the hour of prayer.
Let Acre fall, I merit not thy care;
But if in thee I place unbroken trust,
Sleeps Islam’s Prophet?—Is her God unjust?”
 With entrance unannounc’d, abrupt and rude,
Before the Chief a turban’d stranger stood;
Dark were his giant limbs, and on his face
A mass of evil thoughts had left their trace,
Yet could not quench a wild and awful grace.
Rough, deep and loud, his voice attention bound,
Yet sweetness blended in its sternest sound;
His presence sunk the heart with sudden chill,—
Not shunn’d, though dreaded, and respected still.
 “Fear is for vulgar souls, but not for thine,
Rise, son of Ayoub! conquering Saladine!
Can a slight breeze thus shake a soul so great?
And is it not thy creed, that all is fate?
’Mid those lone sands, ere sprung thy race of clay,
Where prostrate Genii hymn’d the living ray,
In later days where many a festive throng
And royal pageant led the hours along;
Where Iran’s dark-eyed daughters wont to sing,
While scattering roses of the earliest spring,
And Zoroaster’s priests in vesture white
With solemn music hail’d the orient light;
And magic fountains of self-kindled flame
Burst from the earth in many a burning stream:
There, ’mid her roofless columns, Istakar,
True to her God, still meets his beam afar;
Still her lone terraces gleam o’er the waste,
Sublimely sad, and speak of ages past.
And still that wond’rous fount’s mysterious blaze
Pours its full tribute of eternal praise.
Know, mighty Prince, the mortal who shall dare
To dwell in solitude and silence there,
What time the naptha’s pale and livid light
Burns with more splendour through the moonless night,
And, slaves of fire, the mighty Genii lave
Their horrid bulk amid the burning wave,
May view their uncouth orgies, and compel
From their slow utterance many a potent spell:
Command the wealth in caves of ocean barr’d,
That flames encircle and that dragons guard;
Those wond’rous apples, poison half, half sweet,⁶⁰
And basilisks, whose glance ’tis death to meet;
The Carbuncle that burns, self-pois’d in air,
And Talismans, that e’en the Demons fear,
And jewels precious as the vase long hid,
His Genii workmen brought to Giamschid,^k
Whose azure depths were privileg’d to shine
With the first beverage of the purple vine;
While all around the “charming poison” quaff’d,
The Monarch drain’d the blushing bowl, and laugh’d,
 “Prince, not less wond’rous is the vase I bear;
A wave from that mysterious fount is there.
Those Christian towers that mock at other fire,
Once touch’d by this, shall like a dream expire.”
 He spoke, but doubtful still the Soldan stands,
And from the vase averts his pious hands.
“I hate the Christians—live but for their bane,
But Alla’s curse is breath’d on arts profane.
Unhallow’d hands that turquoise vase have wrought,
From springs unblest that burning stream is brought.”
 “Fool!” cried the stranger, while his eyeballs glare
With rage that quench’d each gleam of sweetness there,
“Think’st thou that human voice at Istakar
Hath told thy loss, or borne me thence so far,
Ere the gold vessel in thine Imaum’s tower
Thrice emptied, thrice hath told the changing hour?⁶¹
Prince, know me for Demroosh, and know me one
Of those bright spirits that adore the sun,
Who, but thy Prophet bids, would rather see
Thy race destroyed, than waste one spell on thee.”
 He spoke, and his dilated form became
A vast terrific mass of whirling flame;
Still as it grew, his features shrunk from sight,
And vanish’d in a pyramid of light.^l
 The Soldan clapp’d his hands, th’ attendants ran,
And the loud trumpet calls the full Divan.
Wond’ring the Princes came, and find their Lord
To health, to all his mighty self restored.
 “Shake off this cloud of grief, my sons,” he cries,
“Nor weep for those that wake in Paradise.
Behold the sacred pledge of conquest given,
The gracious promise of approving Heaven;
Not framed by man, or brought by mortal powers,
It holds destruction to the Christian towers.
Oh! who but courts th’ emprize, the glory rare,^m
Even through yon camp to Karacous to bear
Our Acre’s safety, and her foe’s despair?”
 His cheerful words heroic ardour shed,
All court the honour, nor the danger dread;
When from the throng the Prince of Mosul burst,
In years the youngest, but in zeal the first;
While modesty with hope impetuous blends,
Glows in his speech, and on his cheek contends.
 “Not for my own, but for my father’s fame,
Let Asia’s ruler grant his servant’s claim;
Not yet on me her smile has glory shed,
Or stoop’d her purple pinions on my head:
While Chiefs are round, so circled with her rays,
This single deed were lost amid the blaze.
Be mine the hazard, give my youth a right
To wage thy wars, their fellows in the fight.”
Though grave his mood, the generous Soldan smiled,
“Seiffeddin hear, and glory in thy child!
Yet to thy realms, as to his valour just,
I not alone the daring warrior trust;
Go thou, Moheddin! prove how high I rate
His budding worth, who give him such a mate.”

They doff their robes—the armour that he tore
From a stout German, brave Moheddin wore;
While Aladin a Spaniard’s mail assumes,
And quits the turban for the nodding plumes;
His scymitar, that knew its youthful lord,
Alone he chang’d not for th’ Iberian sword,
But o’er the turquoise vase with reverence threw
His scarf, adorn’d with many a glowing hue.
 Cleans’d with ablutions meet, with silent speed,
In circuit large they urge each foaming steed.
Their clattering hoofs, while yet they skirt the plain,
Unheard amid the murmurs of the main.
’Twas dark—and scarce the watch-fires’ feeble gleam
Reveal’d the winding Belus’ placid stream,
Whose upward course they trace, and flinging now
Their lengthen’d reins across an alder’s bough,
On foot they pass the bridge⁶²—before them frown’d
The leaguer’d town, and danger hems them round,
For, lest their foes some nightly succour gain,
The Christians here a chosen guard maintain;
Yet now their fires are dim, for each had quaff’d
To Philip’s health, till slumber check’d the draught.
Rous’d by the tread, they raised their eyes with pain,
Saw Christian armour gleam, and slept again.
 Two hostile rows of drowsy guards are pass’d,
The anxious Saracens approach the last,
Where one more wakeful than his comrades stood,
To route the dying fire with piles of wood;
Then starts, as, by the springing blaze confest,
Shone Aladin’s rich mail, and eagle crest.
 “St. James preserve us! Lopez, see’st thou there
My master’s ghost! by Heaven I saw him fair.
Nay mock me not, shake off this rebel sleep,
He comes to blame the careless watch we keep.”
But pierced by Aladin, he owns too late
A living arm, and sinks beside his mate.
“The foe! the treacherous foe!” aloud he cries,
Waves faintly his expiring brand, and dies.
Haste, Prince, secure thy charge! for all around
The armed Franks spring furious from the ground,
Close on Moheddin, scan his swarthy brow,
And through the thin disguise the Moslem know.
Oh, shall he leave him vainly to contend,
His charge endanger, or desert his friend?
’Tis Nature’s voice prevails; his left arm prest
The precious cup still closer to his breast,
While with his right the thickening ranks he cleaves,
And these of limbs, and those of life bereaves.
He sees Moheddin falter in the strife,
And swords ignoble threat his valued life;
By danger’s self inspired, he dares to raise
Its azure cover from the mystic vase,
Blazed like a beacon light that wond’rous fire!
Confus’d, appall’d, the trembling crowds retire.
“Speed!” cried the Prince. He closed the cup again,
And sprang through flying numbers to the main.
“See, see, my friend! kind Alla lends the bark,
Our foes are scattered, and the night is dark.”
 Screen’d by a rock, not then in story known,
But call’d in after years “the English stone,”ⁿ
With desperate strength they push her from the shore,
Unfurl the canvas, and employ the oar,
And unmolested reach the ancient fort,
Which, rais’d ’mid chafing seas, protects the port.
Moheddin now his purposed signal tries,
A ball of light, which high in ether flies,
Breaks into stars, and fades amid the skies.
The summon’d guard his well-known voice delights,
And quells the fear his Christian mail excites.
To Karacous, who through the weary night
Still toil’d, expectant of the morning fight,
The envoys give the fatal vase, and then
Guide their light galiot o’er the deep agen.
 The dawn to Acre’s shores that vessel brought,
With corn and wine for Genoa’s pilgrims fraught,
And when young Aladin its flag unroll’d
Deep blush’d the Cross amid a lake of gold.
With smiles he spoke, “may Alla now dispose
Our friends to fly—we need not fear our foes.
But near those rocks, Moheddin, dost thou mark
How the rough surges toss a founder’d bark?
And lo! some wretch—I see his signal wave—
Clings to the relic—let us haste to save!”
 He plung’d amid the deep, and snatch’d from fate
A Knight, just sinking with his armour’s weight.
One arm sustain’d the load, one stemm’d the tide,
Till safe at last, he mounts the vessel’s side,
And aids Moheddin, active to reclaim
The life yet lingering in the senseless frame.
They raise his helm, and gaze an instant there
On a pale face, for manly strength too fair,
And dripping locks of long and sable hair;
 At length his eyes unclose—that flag alarms
Returning sense, and starting from their arms,
While o’er his livid cheek the crimson broke,
And his weak frame with frenzied terror shook:
“Oh, cruel chance! oh, luckless hour!” he cried,
“And ye unblest, that snatch’d me from the tide!
That Cross, those helms, your Christian lineage shew,
And should be dear, for I am Christian too;
Yet lead me not to Philip’s camp, for there
Are eyes whose gaze my brain would burst to bear.
Take me to Saladine, or I again
Will seek that ocean whence ye snatch’d in vain.”
 “Unhappy Knight! may all thy sorrows fade
Like this false fear,” his young preserver said.
“What, though these arms our Eastern race belie,
See, as the purple sunrise paints the sky,
I turn to Mecca’s holy shrine, and lave
My hands obedient in the cleansing wave.
Behold a Chief long wont in arms to shine,
The Christian scourge, the friend of Saladine;
Thy western climes have heard Moheddin’s name.”—
“And thine brave youth?”—“As yet unknown to fame,
The humble Aladin begins but now
To seek those wreaths that grace the warrior’s brow.”
 They pass the Christian lines, and row to land,
Where the stout Moslems guard the jealous strand.
Who soon Moheddin’s swarthy features know,
And hail a comrade, where they fear’d a foe.
Still in his hall, and anxious for their fate,
Amid his chiefs the watchful Soldan sate;
While Mosul’s King, whose wily heart confest
A parent’s fears, the keener pang supprest.
But when the warriors came, with triumph crown’d,
When Aladin springs forward with a bound,
Proceeds th’ adventures of the night to shew
And half, in haste, forgets th’ obeisance due;
Then, as it needs his own success to speak,
Finds his words fail, and hides his glowing cheek.
The generous King his youthful hero clasp’d,
His conscious hand the happy father grasp’d;
And, as the Monarch’s praise delighted flows,
With wary tongue his cold applause bestows,
Fearful too bright his dangerous fame might shine.
Yet ill he read the heart of Saladine;
Who, while no guilt disturb’d his stable throne,
Could prize his vassal’s glory as his own.
 Moheddin now, his graver mission sped,
To Saladine the rescued stranger led;
Slight was his stature, but his noble mien
Shew’d one familiar with such courtly scene.
 “Whence, stranger, dost thou come, and what design?
What hopes a Christian Knight from Saladine?”
 “From realms as distant as the orient main
Whence springs the sun, to where he sets again,
I come, in virtue’s specious name betray’d,
Against my Christian foes to seek thine aid.
Yet mine no vulgar grief—to thee alone,
And those that sav’d me, let its source be shewn.”
 He paus’d—th’ assenting Soldan wav’d his hand,
And from the tent retired th’ obedient band.
His cuirass now the stranger knight unbrac’d,
A knight no more—the woman stood confest.
“Prince, if your Prophet, as ’tis said, have driven
Our weaker sex from his voluptuous heaven,
Or but assign’d us there the tasks he gives
To poor imprison’d beauty, while she lives,
How strange, how monstrous, must this sight appear,
A royal virgin clad in armour here!
Yet if distress a warrior’s pity claim,
That pity give, and listen ere you blame.
 Where the calm Seine a richer verdure laves,
And circles Paris with its winding waves,
How bright my life’s deceitful morning shone,
A nation’s pride, and sister to the throne!
Yet to one brighter dream would fancy cling,
My spousal contract with the English King.
Alas! how ill our genuine good we know,
What seem’d a blessing, prov’d my heaviest woe.
While Richard’s absence I with tears endured,
His roving gaze an artful maid allur’d;
New vows he form’d, nor thus content, to hide
His fickle heart, my virgin fame belied;
Oh! cruel blow! was’t not enough to gain
My fond confiding love, and then disdain?
Why crush that flower so fragile and so fair,
To woman vital as the viewless air
That nourishes unfelt, but whose sweet breath,
Denied or tainted, is disease and death.
Yet worse remains: my brother, once so kind,
With him in bonds of policy combin’d,
In silence hears the tale, ah! wretched change!
And sees his sister weep, nor wreaks revenge.
Then blame not that I thus my sex disguise,
And seek myself the justice he denies;
Who else must live of lying tongues the sport,
Rude as those waves that wreck’d me at your port.
For this I sought thy camp, О Prince! and bring
Hate deep as thine to England’s perjured King.
I fight, to force denial from his tongue,
Or bid his kinder sword complete the wrong:
Let me till then forget my injured name,
And in Zorayda hide Alalia’s shame.”
“’Tis strange!” the Prince rejoin’d—“your knights declare
 Their vow, their glory, to defend the fair!
Is innocence aspers’d, and shall not France,
Or generous England, yield her cause a lance?
Enough—I greet thee, daughter of the West!
And fear no treachery from a royal guest.
I meet thy frankness with as frank a heart,
Stay while thou wilt, and when thou wilt, depart.
Yet, for my sake, this robe of state assume,
And grace thy helmet with this sanguine plume,
And only to this faithful pair be known
What gentle bosom guards their monarch’s throne.”
 But Aladin, while she her plaint preferr’d,
Lived in her looks, and hung on every word;
Wont, ’mid his harem’s cool sequester’d bowers
With beauty’s smile to cheat the idle hours,
Contending nymphs and rival charms compare,
And own how hard to chuse where all were fair;
To scorn, even while he felt, the petty wiles
That drest each eye in light, each cheek in smiles;
Complain of short-lived pangs he scarcely knew,
Speak as their slave, yet as their master woo—
He, nurst in climes where beauty, ripe too soon,
Flowers in the dawn, and fades before the noon,
Dreamt not of that high charm, that grace refined,
When beams through each fine form th’ etherial mind:
That beauty, which in gentleness sublime
Awes yet allures, nor dreads the touch of time;
That urges man to more than human deeds,
For which the poet sings, the warrior bleeds;
And wins no favourite of an hour, but one
Still more endear’d when rosy youth is gone.
 Perchance not all these charms Alasia knew,
But all were hers to his enchanted view;
Her wrongs he felt, nor question’d whence it came,
That Philip, nay that Europe slights her fame;
If from her eye intemperate anger broke,
In that keen glance indignant virtue spoke;
True she was Christian, yet ’gainst Christians fought,
And spurn’d their worship whom as friends she sought;
But love such bars despised—did he require
His Persian nymphs to slight their God of fire;
Nay he had watch’d, to see the hinna shine
Through her long fingers, when some maid divine
Her flowery muntras told at Brahma’s shrine,⁶³
True she had barter’d for the helmet’s pride
Her rank and virgin robes—but he might guide
Her steed in war, and combat by her side;
And (pleased to prove that chivalry was known
Not to the youth of western climes alone)
When at her feet he knelt, and sued the right
To wear her colours, and be called her knight,
Her scarf rewards the ardent proselyte.
Then to her tent the royal maid retires,
To seek that rest her weary frame requires;
While he, by hope and love sustain’d, again
Springs to the armies forming on the plain.

Oh, fatal night! oh, fatal gift of fire!
And thou, Alasia! scarce a gift less dire!
The Christians arm, and flush’d with hope and joy,
Crowd to the plain, and speak of triumph nigh:
Ah, wretched, if they knew their wretched doom,
But Heaven in mercy shrouds the ill to come.
 The Templars, prompt the conflict to renew,
O’er their black mail their snowy surcoats threw;
Awful, beneath their open helms appear’d
The dark stern visage, and the manly beard.⁶⁴
Half black, half white, their banner fann’d the air,
And barded steeds their honour’d burthen bear.
Nor with less state sage Ermengard leads on,
In scarlet robed, the warriors of St. John:
In life’s gay morning from the world he fled
To tend the outcast leper’s loathsome bed;
Nor less maintained his Saviour’s cause in fight,
And the White Cross adorned no braver knight.⁶⁵
His eye was keen, his features pale and spare,
And the rough casque had thinn’d his silver hair;
Yet strong must be his horse, and firm his seat,
Who dared that chief in battle-shock to meet.^o
 Fill’d with like hope, with like desire of fame,
On their fleet steeds the flower of Asia came,
By Omar led, who now to strength restored,
Waves with redoubled hate his eager sword.
On either side they strive, they bleed, nor yield
One foot of ground, and equal seem’d the field,
Till Mosul’s Prince, who through that desperate day
Seem’d more than mortal, where the fiercest fray
Raged round Rinaldo, on the hero flies,
And, warm with youth, to deadly fight defies;
Nor long they fought, for from the saddle tost,
Again the Templars mourn their leader lost.
The Christians yield—brave Ermengard in vain
Would save the living, and protect the slain;
His knights in vain their rivalry forego,
They miss the arm of wounded Conrad now,
And he still foremost in the dangerous fight,
Oh, whither is he fled, the Emerald Knight?
And slighted Geoffrey, ever in the van,
And he, though less a warrior, Lusignan,
Whose holy standard was a resting place
Where rallying hope might turn, and brave disgrace?
 While o’er his mail the priestly surplice shone,
Hubert, the saintly Hubert, fights alone;
Alike prepared to act or to endure,
Nor death had terrors for a soul so pure;
Serene in good or ill, with equal eyes
He look’d on both, who look’d beyond the skies.
Where’er the Moslems most deform’d the field,
Where death stalk’d fiercest, there was Hubert’s shield;
An arm less strong, a spirit less subdued,
Had dyed the thirsty sword more deep in blood;
But in that awful moment, truly brave,
He sought not praise, his triumph was to save.
 Meanwhile the King, confiding in his power,
Storms from his wooden fort th’ “Accursed Tower;”
While in the second castle Alberic falls
With rage rekindled on the “Patriarch’s” walls,
And heav’d with patient labour from the shore,
The third vast pile two sturdy galleys bore.
With Austria’s Duke the gallant Flemings join,
Pisa and Genoa swell the frowning line;
(Who with the Adriatic Queen contest
Her ocean crown, and commerce of the west).
In twenty chosen barks, with naval state,
They seek that tower Moheddin sought so late;
The “Tower of Sacrifice,” by Pagan doom,
Where bled to Jove the votive hecatomb;
Built on a rock, amid the waves it stands,
Protects the mole, the shelter’d port commands.^p
 First Alberic wakes the war—an arrowy shower
Drives its brave guardians from the Patriarch’s tower;
He calls his warriors, lets the drawbridge down,
Springs to the wall, and rushes through the town.
The Moslems fly! he heaps the streets with slain,
Nor looks behind, nor chides his lingering train.
Rous’d by the clamour, Aralchaïs came;—
Though sprung from Karacous, his sinewy frame
Had more than manly bulk, but not a soul
Which, like his sire’s, could half a realm control;
Boastful as brave, exulting in his force,
Greedy of spoil, and stranger to remorse.
“Turn, Christian, turn!” he said, “if aught thou seek,
Save vulgar foes, the timid and the weak,
Turn! for my sword the combat can compel;
Methinks those costly arms would suit me well.”
 They met, and blows resound. The youth in height
And strength excell’d; in skill the generous knight.
So long they fought, and each so well withstood
His rival’s rage, that neither yet subdued,
But wearied both, by mutual wish awhile
Suspend the conflict, and repose from toil.
’Twas where a temple rose to him who trod
The Syrian wastes, the herald of his God;
The sculptor’s art his wond’rous story shew’d,
The desert rocks, and Jordan’s sacred flood;
While sever’d heads, in grim and ghastly row
Record his death, and Herod’s impious vow.^q
So high the spot that thence their eyes command
The town beneath, the ocean and the land.
But what the sight that both confounds? and why
Does one with terror shout, and one with joy?
Three pyramids of flame, that rolling dun
Their murky vapours, hide the noonday sun;
Those clouds of smoke, those sanguine fires, too well
To Alberic’s heart their fatal secret tell;
Benumb’d he stands, as by some wizard’s charm,
Nor hears the Moslem call, nor sees him arm.
Weak as a lamb before his murderous foe,
He lifts no shield—his heart receives the blow.
Fierce Aralchaïs tore his mail away,
And left his corpse to prowling dogs a prey.
 Nor had his warriors, in his hour of need,
Thus left their valiant chief alone to bleed,
But Karacous, as in his glorious track
They strove to gain the walls, compell’d them back.
Soon o’er the crumbling battlement he hung,
And from his vase the fatal naptha flung;
O’er burning wood, o’er shrieking warriors plays
With suffocating stench, the quenchless blaze;
Nor acids here nor temper’d hides avail,
Nor cooling water, nor impervious mail;
All flame alike, men, weapons, engines, all
Catch the blue fire, and share the general fall.
The Count of Blois, the lord of fair Champagne,
And Joinville, by his King belov’d in vain,
Sink in th’ inglorious heap, a loss more dear
Than all the engines years of toil could rear.
 Still Philip fought, and conquest crown’d his arms
With easy wreaths, when now a shriek alarms;
Turning, he sees the magic fires devour
The Christian boast, th’ invulnerable tower;
He sees th’ exulting Emir, who displays
His own intended fate, the flaming vase.
“To earth, to earth!” he cried, and happy they
Whose flying feet were swiftest to obey;
Already to the sky the blaze aspires,
And the proud castle sinks in lurid fires.
Last of the band the young Antonio came,
His crested helmet caught the magic flame,—
He writhes in agony, his piercing cries
Drown even the Moslem shout, till soon he lies
A heap of dust: his spirit seeks the skies.
 It chanced a spear that Montmorency cast
Flew through the flames and kindled as it past,
It fixed its point in Aboul Hagia’s breast,
Vainly he tore it from his glowing vest,
He burns, to earth his failing limbs descend,
His scatter’d ashes with Antonio’s blend.

Meanwhile the Austrian, in his floating tower,
Leads to the fierce assault his naval power;
The fort was slightly mann’d, and ill prepared,
No arm of prowess animates the guard
What though a random spear had pierced his side,^r
He mounts aloft, nor heeds the sanguine tide.
Where on the ramparts warlike engines stood
With flaming torch he fires the arid wood;
His followers scale the walls, and blazing brands
Shed fire at once from fifty valiant hands;
The Saracens retreat, the Christian host
O’er the hot embers mounts, and wins the post,
While raised in triumph on the fading fires,
’Mid wreaths of smoke the conquering Cross aspires.
 But fell Demroosh, of all that race accurst
That met on Carmel, loathsomest and worst,
Unseen was near. With dire combustion fraught,
A small light bark the artful Pisans brought;
But not to man the coming hour is known,
Their foes destruction meant, it proves their own.
The watchful fiend on that ill-omen’d bark
Blows from the burning fort a floating spark.
Swift as light straw, or Autumn’s wither’d leaves,
Her fatal freight the rapid ill receives:
She flames, nor flames alone, her rockets cast
On every side have lighted many a mast,
Warriors to steel inur ‘d, in conflict brave,
Shriek at the fire, and shudder at the wave.
In vain their eager hands unfurl the sails,
The canvas kindles as they catch the gales;
In vain they ply the oar, the burning wood
Drops from their grasp, and chafes the hissing flood.
Few were the barks their wretched crew that bore
Through flood and fire, to die by steel on shore.
 Nor ends the havoc here, on meteor wings
From the calm sea th’ exploding fireship springs,
And like some vast volcano, sends on high
Its flaming entrails to pollute the sky.
The waters foam and swell, the thunder’s roar
Shakes the still air, an earthquake rocks the shore:
Yet calm and solemn as the mountain’s brow
In the clear moon, when tempests rage below,
Floats the proud castle, and that burning storm
But clothed in glory what it could not harm;
Till the dire fiend, who lights th’ accursed dart,
Even in the penal flame that wraps his heart,
Strikes its broad base, the lambent volumes soar,—
The last, the proudest castle is no more.
 Stern on the hostile fort the Austrian stands,
And owns the malice of infernal hands.
Islam revives, his few brave friends maintain
Th’ unequal fight, but mingle with the slain:
And one who marked him wounded, spent with toil,
Thought at light cost to win the princely spoil;
But in his groin the Austrian drove the wound,
Then spurn’d the falling wretch, and glancing round
A withering look, he plunged amid the main,
And rose, though cumber’d with his arms, again.
Though pour’d a crimson current from his side,
With strenuous arms he beat the foaming tide,
And reach’d the shore; but peace nor rest was there,
All was confusion, carnage, and despair.
To their strong camp the hunted Christians fly,
And thank the care that rais’d its walls so high;^s
While on their rear the Moslems press, to gain
That la«t defence, and make its shelter vain.
Before the open gate the Count of Bar,
A new Achilles, singly bears the war;
Like some vast elephant, whose native mail
His winged foes with puny rage assail,
He stood; the spears that bristled in his vest
He sent more deeply to their owner’s breast,
And as the victims thickened round, he rose
Still more terrific on his gasping foes.
Screen’d by his mighty arm, the Christians haste
To their calm tents, and bless him as they past.
 Alas! that strength which all the battle bore,
Which slew an hundred foes and sought for more,
That mail so finely wrought and knit so well,
Were weak as reeds before the powers of hell.
The conquering troops of Saladine to aid
Now Karacous the eager sally led,
While borne triumphant in the turquois vase
Of fire accurst a fatal remnant plays:
That fatal drop, with fury hurl’d from far,
Strikes on his lifted sword the Count of Bar;
He shakes it from his grasp, but shakes in vain,
It clings suspended by too strong a chain;
His arm already feels th’ ascending flame,
And dreadful tortures spread through all his frame.
Enraged, to earth he cast his ponderous shield,
And snatch’d a spear, the last he e’er shall wield:
“Take that, misshapen wretch! and learn, if still
My better arm were faithful to my will,
Soon should thy soul regain its native hell,
And feel those torments thou canst give so well.”
He spoke—his spear the Emir’s shoulder tore,
And long that wound shall Karacous deplore.
Then with one shrill, one final shriek of pain,
He fell expiring on the mound of slain,
While spreading o’er the whole, that wondrous fire
Blends all his victims in one funeral pyre.^t
 Yet even in death his weeping friends he saved,
And aw’d that foe his living arm had braved.
That mighty blaze, extending o’er the plain,
Drives from th’ assaulted camp the impious train.
Secure at length the ponderous valves they close,
And weep their loss, and from their toils repose.

Book V

The Arrival of Richard in Palestine

Within the camp confusion reign’d, and shame,
Resentment, clamour, grief and mutual blame:
But man is blind; no warning, no remorse,
Arrests the wicked in his headlong course.
The Austrian hastes where still in regal pride,
Sate reckless Isabelle by Conrad’s side,
And cool’d his gashes with that herb renown’d,
That erst by Belus great Alcides found,⁶⁶
What time the dying hydra gave the wound.
Scarce patient of the Leech’s short delay,
Propt on his sword, he urged his tottering way;
Yet smoothing as he came the rugged brow,
Which rage and agony convuls’d but now,
To Thoron’s wife he made obeisance low:
“Health, royal lady—hands so fair as yours,
My friend attests, can work no common cures:
Ah, happy! while you heal the meaner part,
Could those bright eyes forbear to pierce the heart.
Hubert, that mitred Norman, dares to say,
That all the wreck of this disastrous day
Springs from your guilt, who left—oh deed abhorr’d!—
For this brave Prince your craven, woman-lord:⁶⁷
And, but Augustus check’d his priestly pride,
The fools had come to force you from his side.”
 “To force!” cried Conrad, “can they then forget
The wounded lion is a lion yet?
The meddling knave were best his beads to tell—
Sooth! for a priest he wields the falchion well;
But mine; my friend, is weary of its rest,
And longs to find a scabbard in his breast.
Have they forgot, in Syria’s last alarm,
Whose was the single ship, the single arm?—
But I disdain to boast, I cannot teach
My worth in words, my actions are my speech.
To-morrow’s dawn hails Isabelle my bride,
Nor dare they touch her raiment at my side.—
Forgive me, Princess, if my words be brief,
And I forget the lover in the Chief;
Augustus is my friend, nor durst he shew
An adverse semblance, were his heart my foe.
Once join’d with thee, I speak as Sion’s King,
And drivelling Lusignan in vain may bring
That high-souled Prince, whose warlike worth I hate,
Richard may come, but he will come too late.”
 “Then mark me, Conrad!” Isabelle replied,
“No private rights beseem a regal bride;
Sovereigns and Peers must grace the splendid scene,
And all the nuptial state that fits a Queen.”

That solemn mockery stains no stately pile,
Where storied tapestry hangs the vaulted aisle;
No dome time-hallowed, where the tinctured rays
Shine on the sculptured great of ancient days.
When Acre’s siege began, the martial train
Had rear’d with simple skill the modest fane.
Yet those sleep there, whose souls now wrapt in bliss,
Had wept in blood to witness deed like this;
And on the walls in grand disorder shone
Turbans and scymitars, from Moslems won.
No deep ton’d music breath’d a solemn sound,
Nor gold nor rubies gemm’d the altar round;
Yet piety had breathed the humble prayer
O’er many a precious relic resting there,
With zeal as pure as where the tapers blaze,
And chaunting choirs th’ eternal anthem raise.
Behind the shrine a veil of crimson hue
The sacred precinct veiled from vulgar view.
Haughty yet mean, less studious to fulfil
His Maker’s precepts than his Suzerain’s will,
The Prelate of Beauvais, ministrant there,
Insults his God with vows he cannot hear.
Now came the Princess,—gold and purple blend
On her rich robes, and high-born dames attend;
Nor Gaul’s degraded Majesty denied
To view the guilty rites, and give the bride.
Next moved the daring Prince; nor latent shame
Deprest his courage, nor his glance could tame;
Yet more than lover’s rapture seem’d to speak
In his quick motion and his mantling cheek;
Something o’er which the wondering gazer ran,
Then shunn’d instinctive, and forebore to scan.
The Austrian next, whose summon’d smiles coneeal’d
His lingering step, and smart of wounds half heal’d;
Behind, and blended with the Tyrian train,
His mail-clad warriors throng the narrow fane.
 Already round the altar’s glittering fence
Th’ attentive Princes kneel,—the prayers commence;
When from behind the silken veil arise
Low sounds of smother’d sobs, and long-drawn sighs.
The curtain opens—well may Conrad start,
Well may the blood flow backward to his heart;
Well may he gaze upon that wasted frame,
And ask, thus changed, ah! can it be the same?
Gone was the wreath her braided locks had worn,
Her robes, once wrought with gold, defac’d and torn,
Her glassy eyes a wandering mind bespeak,
Yet beauty linger’d on her pallid cheek;
And something scarce defined, in speech or mien,
Of fair and noble, told what once had been:
As in the wither’d rose a faint perfume
Recalls the memory of its summer bloom.
Her low soft tones a pleasing grief inspir’d,
Yet sooth’d to pity, not to vengeance fir’d.
 “Oh! Conrad, Cæsar, or if thou require
That name so dearly purchased,—Prince of Tyre!
Think not I come to mar thy bliss, nor fear
That hatred urges one no longer dear;
I will not vex thee long, will but resign
This ring, this precious ring that bound thee mine—
Take it, proud Isabelle, and may he prove
More true to thee, than to my slighted love.
Yet I was loved—and still beloved had been
Had Stamboul’s wretched Princess reigned a Queen.
Nay, on my alter’d form your gaze forbear,
Nor what I was, nor am, is now my care:
I yet were lovely, liad he thought me fair.
Nor think, though wild my sunken eye may seem,
That some dark deed is in its wandering beam:—
What though I felt not, when th’ unpitying storm
Has raged at midnight o’er my houseless form;
Though I have flung me on the rocky brow,
And could not hear the cataract roar below,
The soul which once in duty’s path has trod,
Not e’en when reason strays, forgets its God.
Still will I bear th’ appointed load of pain,
One only vision—Ha! it comes again!
Avaunt, ye murderers! God of mercy, give
A longer span—let him repent and live—
Ah, me! unshrieved the guilty soul has fled,
And see! those phantoms thickening round the dead!
Those forms that are not of the sons of light—
Oh, save me, save me, from the maddening sight!”—
 She scream’d! her hands were clasp’d upon her head,
A burning blush her wither’d cheeks o’erspread,
And like a morning cloud, a broken spell,
She vanish’d—how or whither none could tell.
 With lips whose pride the struggling shriek forbore,
Though pale and trembling as the veil she wore,
Stood Isabelle; but her unbending lord
Own’d not his secret pangs in look or word;
Unchanged, unshrinking was his eagle eye,
As when it gazed on Raymond’s agony.
With rapid glance he scann’d th’ assembly round,
Beheld the cloud on every face, and frown’d.
 “Princes, I read resentment on your brow—
Say then, is Conrad’s honour fall’n so low,
The sport of every maniac’s breath—as frail
As the slight aspen in the summer’s gale?
Can ye not trace the same infernal powers
Whose dreadful spells consumed our fire-proof towers?
I reck not, though an hundred phantoms fair
Should come like feverish dreams, and melt in air;
Nay I will thank them for this bridal ring,
It well beseems the daughter of a King;
I dread no ills its charmed round may breed—
Most reverend prelate, let the rites proceed.”—
 Convinced or awed, no warrior took the word.
One hardy Tyrian stept before his lord,
But shrunk, for Conrad half unsheath’d the sword.
Fair Isabelle revived,—the rites were closed,
Nor Philip’s voice forbade, nor heaven opposed.

Already Ullah pours her baleful rains,
And drives the armies from the miry plains;
In Acre’s domes her weary troops recline,
On Kaisan’s height the bands of Saladine,
Alike unmenaced by the dearth and woe
That threat the Christians in the camp below.
Their fleets are wreck’d upon the stormy coast.
Their stores consumed, their famish’d coursers lost;
Want stalks abroad, and at her touch the skin
Cleaves to the bone, and furies rage within.
Gaunt, fleshless forms, their meagre friends appal,
And glide like spectres round the silent wall.
Here sullen apathy forgets to feel,
Here hunger revels on the loathsome meal;
Here avarice, whose insatiate greed has sold
His last sad pittance, dying, gnaws the gold.
Love bids Alecto’s torch his lamp awake,
And dips his arrows in the Stygian lake,
While phrenzy never tamed, and horrid joy,
With dreadful laughter mock their agony;
With loud blasphemings load the fetid air,
And join, with Death, the banquet of despair.
Now swell the streams to torrents, from the plain
Wash the half-buried bodies of the slain,
And with corruption foul, rush headlong to the main.
Contagion comes, and through the wasted frame
Spreads,—as through Autumn woods the casual flame,
When town, and tower, and ripening grain, by turns
Feed the red fury, and a province burns.
The brave in arms, untaught to shrink at death,
Start from their friends, and shun each other’s breath.
In vain the chiefs th’ unbridled throng restrain,
And Hubert warns of angry Heaven in vain;
Shame flies with hope, they spurn the theme sublime,
And deeper plunge in misery and in crime;
When lo! a fleet!—as o’er the boundless blue
The banner’d Cross flung wide its sanguine hue,
That holy symbol seem’d again to bear
Mercy to man, and comfort to despair.
Oh, needless mockery; on th’ unguarded strand
Proud Adel springs, and bids his Egypt land;
Tears down the bright delusion, and displays
His yellow standard to their sickening gaze.
 With all the pomp of music, all the show
Of selfish triumph when it scoffs at woe,
Betwixt the Christians and the town he leads,
Uncheck’d, that host whose countless sum exceeds
The insect swarms that, far at distance seen,
Blot the broad sun, and chase the vernal green.
While from their walls they gaze, and blush to own
Their life, their safety in those walls alone;
While latent valour wakes, and aims the blow
The wither’d arm is powerless to bestow;
By turns his luxury mocks their need, by turns
His taunts assail the wretched troop he scorns.
 Hope springs again, for hark, the trumpet’s notes!
O’er the near hills th’ Imperial Eagle floats.
’Tis Frederic’s van! back, back, the portals fling,
And hail with rapturous shouts the conquering King!
Alas! Icomium’s terror breathes no more,
O’ercome with toil, or fest’ring in their gore,
His myriads sleep, and those that yet remain,
Exhausted, pale, may wish them with the slain;
While their sad Duke, who mourns his mighty sire,
In filial sorrow sinks his martial fire;
Nor feels that, lurking in the cup of grief,
Disease has mark’d her prey, and mocks relief.
Through the dark camp they spread a double gloom,
And joined in misery, wail their common doom.

While thousands thus accuse his long delay,
“Why lingers Richard on the wat’ry way?”
The sun in sadness rose, in sadness set,
The waves are clear, th’ horizon spotless yet;
Can Richard loiter when the clarions blow?
Or hear of want, nor hasten to bestow?—
Alike his spirit chafes; from day to day
By storms imprison’d in Limisso’s bay;
At length escaped, in vain his sails expand,
Some demon drives them from the Syrian land.
Yet with two favourite barks, before the rest
The royal galley skims the ocean’s breast,
And the clear waves play round each ruddy oar,
As if rejoicing in the freight they bore.
In the blue distance, faint and dim-descried,
Like rock or islet looming o’er the tide,
A shadowy form appear’d,— but soon it grew
Near and more near, and now distinct to view;
A mighty ship, with every mast defined,
And all her canvass spread before the wind.
Vast as those floating towns that bear afar
From pole to pole the storm of England’s war;
Yet ship like this, on all the azure reign,
Nor Europe dreamt, nor Asia saw till then.
With awe the crew its mighty bulk behold,
And hostile pendants, bright as liquid gold:
But for the expected fight the Monarch burns,
And threats and promises inspire by turns;
His galleys arm; the mariners in haste,
On the sharp prow the frowning castle place;
The knights their helmets brace, their lances wield,
And from the gunwhale snatch th’ emblazon’d shield.⁶⁸
Meanwhile with all the press of oar and sail,
And all the impulse of the strenuous gale,
Th’ enormous “Dromond” comes, and strives to whelm
Her puny foes amid the watery realm.
They shun the fatal shock, yet rudely tost,
Now rise to heaven, and now in gulfs are lost;
While closing o’er her track the billows roar,
And chafe beneath th’ unwonted load they bore.
But Richard’s voice the faltering yeomen cheers,
“Gold for the valiant, death to him that fears!”
He bids his galleys turn and court the wind,
And pressing fast their heavier foe behind,
Before the breeze with forceful speed they glide,
And pierce with beaked prows her lofty side:
The grappling hooks are fixed; the arrowy showers
Pour like a tempest from the wooden towers,
In vain—from plank or gunwhale they rebound,
And strew the ocean, guiltless of a wound;
While swarthy Egypt at her foes beneath
Aims the deliberate blow, and scatters death.
Nor thus content, with many a ready weight
Of stones and lead, prepares their general fate.
But England’s King, whom no defence could bar,
Now to the adverse deck transfers the war;
For boldly standing on the castled prow,
He climbs its loftier side, and leaps below.
Him Leicester followed, fighting as he rose,
Richmond and Nevile, dealing blows for blows.
With envy fired, De Vere^a and Sackville^b spring
From either rival bark, to aid their King.
Fast flows the purple tide,—yet wherefore tell
How Albert fought, or stout Fitzharding^c fell,
Or Pardo’s strokes in quick succession came
With graceful ease, as war itself were game?—
Hid in the darksome caverns of the deep
Already twice their scanty numbers sleep;
Where late presumption vaunted, fear assails,
The clouded Crescent wanes, the Cross prevails.
The sable Acbar now, in whose command
That dread of ocean left th’ Egyptian strand,
First in the fight while victory doubtful hung,
Now at the Monarch’s feet his sabre flung.
“Thou, at whose touch the Faithful fall!” he said,
“Thou, who hast borrow’d Azrael’s venom’d blade,
Rejoice; that arm which earth and Heaven defies,
Ne’er reaped by sea or shore so rich a prize.
Behold, contrived with what consummate art,
How vast, how strong, how finish’d every part.
From where the Nile its eastern tribute pours,
To Syria’s strand we brought these warlike stores;
These arms, these liquid fires, this hoard of grain,
To Acre borne, had made your valour vain.^d
Yet deem not, Infidel,” and as he spoke
The slumbering furies kindled in his look,
“Deem not that these are thine,—my triumph mark,
Where yon green ocean oozes through the bark-
Learn how we combat on these wat’ry fields,
What thou shalt win, and how a Moslem yields!
Too blest to perish in destroying thee,
To ocean’s caves I drag thee down with me.”
 “Die then thy chosen death,” the Monarch cried,
“My weary weapon scorns to tame thy pride;
But vaunt no more:” and bounding o’er the rings
Of dead and dying, to his bark he springs;
Calls from their fancied spoil his warriors bold.
The grappling irons wrenches from their hold,
And safe and free his galleys ride again,
As their proud foe sinks darkly in the main.

Now to their wishes shifts the prosperous gale,
They rest their oars, and loosen every sail;
Beneath the cloudless sunbeams glittering bright,
And sporting through a thousand rings of light,
Round the smooth keels the limpid waters play,
Till, as they purpled in the evening ray,
With rapture Richard hail’d the yellower line
That traced in mist the shore of Palestine.
Fill’d with one feeling, with one thought inspired,
At sight of that so long in vain desired,
One shout of holy joy the warriors gave,
A shout re-echoed by the dancing wave;
By angels echoed with a heavenly strain,
By fiends in mockery from their beds of pain:
With streaming eyes they view the distant strand,
And stretch their arms to meet the Promised Land.
 Nor less, from Acre’s camp the Christians knew
The white specks glimmering on the boundless blue;
And gazing, linger on the darken’d shore,
Till fancy’s self can fix their place no more.
But soon a mimic day illumes the dark,
And lamps light up in each advancing bark;
Round every mast are garlands wreathing bright,
And every galley’s form is traced in light;
And Rams and Catapults, and engines dire,
Shine on the crowded decks, and vomit fire.
High to the clouds the living splendours glow,
The bright reflexion gilds the deep below.
O’er Richard’s head, in lines of burnish’d gold
Flamed his rich crown, his royal standard roll’d;
And far above, a Cross serenely bright,
Beam’d, as from Heaven, its pure and silver light.
It was an eastern night of loveliest calm,
Each wave was music, and each zephyr balm.
No mist the placid face of ocean knew,
No cloud obscured the æther’s deepening blue;
And though no moonbeams played, a ruddier glow
In grandeur clothed majestic Carmel’s brow,
And those devoted towers that shone so bright,
Like victims, lovelier in their funeral light.
No chilling blasts, no fatal dews were there,
To mar enjoyment of that tranquil air,
So lately heavy with the damps of death,
Now pure and fragrant as an infant’s breath;
Or that blest eve, whose sacred dews arrest
With drops of healing power, the raging pest;⁶⁹
Disease and pain, and wounds and famine seem
From every bosom vanished like a dream;
While as the fleet rows nearer to the shore
The billows blush beneath each glittering oar,
That dashes jets of living flame on high,
To shine and fade amid the lurid sky.
The rivers glitter in the spreading beam,
The brightening ocean seems a flood of flame;
From every brow has pass’d its hopeless gloom,
And answering fires the Christian camp illume.

The morn that called the Moslem host to prayer
Still saw the happy Christians lingering there.
The biazon’d sails beneath the sunbeams glance
And gem, like floating clouds, the dark expanse.
Now drums and cymbals sound, the mellow flute
Blends its soft tones, nor is the clarion mute;
And timing to their oars, the myriads raise
The solemn chaunt or choral peal of praise.
Borne on the waters now the music floats
Half lost in air, now swells its boldest notes,
Now higher strains the vocal brass inspire,
And angel voices seem to join the quire.
Bright as that reed, by Ganges, (sacred name!)
Whose scarlet blossom clothes her banks in flame,
The purple thistle on the Syrian wold,
Or fragrant asphodel that blooms in gold,
Now pennons wave; bend, eagle, cross, and shell,
The pomp of war or pride of lineage tell;
And long and loud the shouts of welcome grew,
Whene’er some well known banner flash’d to view;
Or fancy on the distant prow could trace
Some kindred shield, some long-expected face.
Near and more near, they reach the crowded coast,
Hope reads her triumph now, and doubt is lost;
The vessels ground, and many a friendly hand,
And rapturous greeting, hail them to the strand.^e
First Richard springs to shore, and numbers spread
The costly tapestry for his courser’s tread;
Favell, the noblest of the Cyprian spoil,
Gentle and graceful, and untired by toil,
In colour like the fields of ripening corn,
Crimson and gold his beauteous limbs adorn;
With high-arched neck the splendid cloth he trode,
Proud of his trappings, prouder of his load;
While envious of his state, in raven pride,
The Norman charger paces by his side.
But wheresoe’er the Monarch’s glances fall,
His grace, his bland demeanour gladdens all;—
Loud shout the Franks, the wondering Syriaus prest
To gaze on him, the Hero of the West!
Admire his sable hauberk’s woven mail,
His brazen axe that crushed where’er it fell^f
His silken mantle glorious to behold;
His saddle where the lions ramp’d in gold,
His lion shield, his helmet lion-crown’d,⁷⁰
And the gold broom-flower on its glittering round,^g
Behind, in long procession, moved the brave,
And notes of triumph swell, and banners wave;
The winds on high the English lions fling,
And dragon standard of th’ Armoric King.
The Monarch kneels, with all his Princes round,
And kist with reverend awe the sacred ground;
While Hubert lifts to Heaven his tearful eyes,
And calls a thousand blessings from the skies.
Now Philip came; whate’er of jealous pain
Had rankled, and must rankle there again,
In neither heart such thought now found a place,
And mutual love prolong’d the strict embrace.
All, all was joy; for even Leopold
In simulated smiles his hate controll’d:
Conrad alone, unable to disguise,
Roll’d dark on Lusignan his baleful eyes.
 Nor less delighted numbers press the strand
Where England’s bridal Queen descends to land;
Admire her regal mien, Evanthe’s grace,
The holy calm of pale Matilda’s face,
Or sprightly Hermesind’s aeriel bound,
As like a fawn she ran and gazed around.
 Oh, talk of danger, talk of want no more!
From the tall ships in long succession pour
Men, armour, weapons, every warlike store;
Sicilia’s matchless grain, Oporto’s wine,^h
The unpressed honours of the Cyprian vine,
The steer well fatted, and the salted chine.
All,— but their names the sated ear would tire,
All want could need, or luxury might desire.
The ships are drawn on shore, and now revealed,
Those portals fall that late the waves concealed;
The snorting steeds rush joyful to the land,
And neigh aloud for liberty regained.ⁱ
Rich stuffs are heap’d where’er the gazer turns,
And lances gleam, and polish’d armour burns.
And o’er their cups the jovial circles sing.
The power, the boundless wealth of England’s King.
 In Richard’s tent was spread the gorgeous feast,
At Richard’s board sate every noble guest;
Brave, courteous, generous, with untroubled mind,
To all around magnificently kind,
He dreams not that his gifts renew the smart
Of envy lurking in Augustus’ heart;
While hovering nigh, Alkarmel sees with pain
The peaceful parting of the princely train;
Of those who ne’er shall part in peace again.

But whose that gay pavilion? Blazing bright,
Streams through the silk the many colour’d light,
Its ample space in Persian splendour drest,
And rich with all the perfumes of the east,
Vast as the tent for great Kerboga wove,^k
Each spicy gale seems redolent of love?
While all his vassals brave the dews, the wind,
Rests Richard here, in luxury’s arms reclined?
No! his adventurous soul was bent to share
Whate’er his meanest serf might feel or dare:
But all that splendour to himself denied,
He freely lavish’d round his lovely bride.
“Enough,” he thought, “she feels of toil and woe,
And small the comforts I can here bestow,
Yet, oh! while mine the power, from her be far
The fears, the horrors, and the wants of war.”
 Her train dismiss’d, the Cyprian Princess there
Alone remains, her anxious thoughts to share.
Why, sweet Evanthe! does thy faded cheek
The secret touch of pining grief bespeak?
Ah! what avails that thine the winning smile,
The grace, the softness of thy native isle;
Thy golden locks, the languish of thine eyes,
But gain thee hearts that thou canst never prize!
Kind, gentle, modest, and sincere in vain,
Thy snowy bosom heaves alone with pain;
E’en from the hour that to thyself revealed
Thy fatal flame, with growing pain concealed,
Bereft of hope, for thine unspotted breast
Ne’er harbour’d guilty wish, or thought unblest.
Thy love, like lamps in Egypt’s ancient tombs,
Nor chilling damps can quench, nor time consumes;
And should some fatal chance reveal the fire,
At once, like them, shall life and love expire.
Thy wither’d bloom the fruitless struggle tells
Of strong resolve with more than human spells;
Thine only joy to gaze on Richard’s eye,
Yet thy sole hope, thy last resource to fly.
She rose, with pain the rising pang supprest,
And sought her couch:—oh! may she hope to rest.—
 “Why,” cried the King, with all a lover’s fear,
“Why, Berengaria, wilt thou linger here?
That form, till now by trembling zephyrs woo’d,
Has braved the gales of ocean, keen and rude,
Must brave the journey o’er the sandy waste,
And worse than toil, the desert’s sultry blast:
Yet, thy soft frame with equal toils oppress
Thou scorn’st to sleep when hardiest warriors rest!
Short is their respite who with warriors live,
But take the little case my care can give;
Nor let thy fading hue and heavy eyes
Betray the languor which thy tongue denies.”
 “And think’st thou, Richard, that my cheek is pale?
’Tis but these faithless lamps that tell the tale.
Why did I winds, and waves, and deserts dare,
But to partake thy counsels and thy care?
Oh,Richard! if my fragile frame must fail
At every toil, and shrink from every gale,
Why am I thine? oh! why did lavish fame
Teach me, unknown, to kindle at thy name,
And think how blest above her sex must be
The happy maid whom heaven should link with thee?
How throbb’d my heart in thee to find the Knight
I crown’d as victor of Pamplona’s fight!^l
And oh! what joy my inmost spirit stirr’d,
To find myself by Richard’s choice preferr’d!
Yet then I felt, amid my rapturous pride,
What Heaven demanded of a hero’s bride;
Not with her foolish fears and puny frame
To check his course, and clog his rising fame;
Nor changing with each wild caprice of fate,
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate.
Arm’d ‘gainst myself, I prob’d my heart with care,
Tried all its powers, to suffer or to dare;
And had I found no answering vigour move,
Dear as thou wert, I had resign’d thy love,
Why all this pomp? why wilt thou feed mine eyes
With luxuries thou hast taught me to despise?
No more this gorgeous down is spread for me,
Lo! there the couch that I must share with thee.
What! could’st thou then his living rage deride,
And start’st thou, Richard, at the Lion’s hide?
Nay! ’tis a beast in tuneful story known,
Generous his heart, and royal as thine own.”
 Still on her face the Monarch fix’d his gaze,
Lost in an ecstacy of love and praise,
Again reminds her of the waning night,
And speaks of Council with the earliest light.
Exalted pair! unless your couch be blest,
What mortal eyes can hope untroubled rest!

’Tis morn; and now th’ assembled Chiefs debate,
How best their arms may seal the city’s fate.
Three splendid thrones adorn’d the spacious ring,
One Richard fill’d, and one the Gallic King.
A third for him who in the Cydnus died,
Now Conrad claim’d, and Lusignan denied.⁷¹
Meanwhile the Chiefs to royal Richard yield
The leader’s staff, and bid him rule the field.
But Philip brook’d not this; the last night’s feast,
The shouts, the triumph, rankled in his breast,
His spirit chafed to see the equal throne,
The fame, the riches, that outvied his own.
 “Shall I to England stoop the pride of France,
And at a vassal’s bidding couch the lance?
I whose rich blood from Rome’s defender springs,
The first of Western thrones, the “King of Kings?”^m
Be mine the sway, or I no more proceed,
I will not follow where I ought to lead.
And more—let Richard’s avarice now resign
Half of that prize, by solemn treaty mine;
They may be rich who other’s wealth withhold,
And generous that reward with other’s gold;
And fools may still with hireling praise pursue
The hand so lavish of another’s due;
But know thy Suzerain never can allow
The Cypriot crown in peace to bind thy brow
Nor she thy doting passion brings from far,
She called thy bride, the daughter of Navarre,
To reign as England’s Queen, and boast perchance
You scorn’d for her the plighted maid of France.”⁷²
 “Nor think,” cried Conrad, “that I tamely see
A worthless rival here preferr’d to me.
Shall Lusignan display his white-veiled car,
And lead again his betters to the war?
Bid him that badge of sovereign power resign,
Once his indeed, but now as justly mine.
Mine, in the right of Isabelle my bride—
I blame thee, King, for thou abett’st his pride.”
 They ceased, and clamour rose: but Richard’s look
Still’d every tongue to silence, ere he spoke.
 “Strange welcome this! that on your comrade showers
The hatred due to Acre’s stubborn towers!
Philip, our vows of Vezelay I own,
But not thy right to share the Cyprian throne;
Alone I won it, and I rule alone.
Yet mark—Theodoric’s soul now wings its flight,
And leaves his wide domain his Suzerain’s right;
One half of Flanders to my rule resign,ⁿ
And half of Cyprus, nay its best, is thine;
This justice wills—deny or grant the claim,
Our pledge was mutual, and our rights the same.
But chafe not that my troops are brave, that Heaven
To me a rich and pious land has given,
Whose loyal sons, to him how justly dear.
Press on their King the wealth thou envy’st here!—
If gold thou seek’st, lead on to yonder wall—
Let Acre yield—this strife delays her fall.
 But for thy sister, for my bride, beware
The sacred theme, I warn thee to forbear.
I loved Alasia once, I loved too well,
Who dared for her against my sire rebel.
Thou heard’st when Heaven in awful thunder spoke,
When Heaven’s red bolt the fatal contract broke;⁷³
Thou know’st the cause, ah! bid me not reveal
What knightly honour would for ever seal.
 “Conrad, I will not pause to question now,
If heaven or hell have register’d the vow
That sanctions thy wild hope—I boast no right
To pluck the beam that dims a brother’s sight.
Yet ’mid such clamour for an empty throne
If claims were wanting, I might bring my own.
From Fulk^o I also spring—this biting blade
Perchance might make a substance of the shade,
And I, fit umpire, to the fable true,
Might gorge the prize, and leave the shell for you.
But Lusignan in me has placed his trust,
And I uphold him, for his claims are just;
Myself will be his rampart, and do thou
Who mocked a friendless wretch, respect him now.”
 He spoke—th’ assembled Princes own’d that hour
The force of justice from the lips of power.
Nor was it eloquence of words alone,
Each glance, each act, each modulated tone
Soft as the dews on sun-burnt Afric stole,
Sunk in the thirsty ear, and fertilized the soul.
 But Philip bent his brows—“Be warn’d,” he cried,
“The hour may come when thou shalt rue thy pride.
I rush to war, but not to swell thy line,
Our fame, our fortune, can no more combine:
Go, waste your strength before yon sullen towers,
To meet the Soldan’s frowning front be ours;
Yet there are means, perchance to thee unknown,
By which the city may be all my own.”
 “By Heaven I thank thee! thou hast given to me
In wrath, what I had craved in courtesy,”
Return’d Plantagenet; his knights he calls,
Mounts his swift steeds and rides along the walls,
To mark were time or force had wrought decay,
Or careless guard might give th’ assailants way;
Nor heeds the hostile darts that shower around,
Inglorious darts, that fall without a wound.
 The monarch notes where ocean’s hoarded tide
With copious draught the stagnant moat supplied,
A flowing river, devious o’er the plain,
That now approach’d the town, now shunn’d again,
But where th’ Accursed ramparts rose in air,
Spread in a pool, and seem’d to vanish there.
 “It cannot be,” the King exulting cried,
That space so small engulfs yon rapid tide!
Be secret, Albert; but when night shall hide
The daring purpose, then collect thy force,
And for this stream delve deep the hidden course,
So thirst shall rule in Acre, and prepare
The stings of death for those the sword shall spare.”^p
He spoke, and launching half his barks again,
Surveys the frowning bulwarks from the main.
Across the waves a mighty mole extends,
In form a crescent, and the port defends;
On all its length defensive ramparts rise,
And at its end the Tower of Sacrifice.
Thence to the Patriarch’s tower, a mighty chain
Stretch’d its huge links, and dipp’d beneath the main.^q
This lowered with speed, admits the prompt supplies,
Then checks the pursuit, or secures the prize.
Here Austria late and baffled Pisa storm’d;
But holier zeal th’ intrepid Monarch warm’d.
Careless of missiles showering from above,
His bark beneath the Patriarch’s fort he drove,
Where to a granite pillar’s ample round.
With massy rings its iron length was bound;
And seized his Norman axe,—that axe whose weight
Was then a wonder, and whose touch was fate.
He rais’d it high, and bending from the prow,
With all his giant force impels the blow;
He strikes, and strikes but once, the links divide,
And fall, harsh grating, through the gurgling tide:
Then to the port his gallant fleet he led,
And form’d with strictest care the close blockade.

Kahira,⁷⁴ “the Victorious,” sends in vain
Her rice, her sesame, her golden grain,
The loaded vessels dread the guarded shore,
And plenty reigns in Acre’s walls no more;
In vain her friends their anxious vigils keep,
The troops by land, the galleys on the deep,
Their Argus rests not, nor surprise can win
Its way without, nor sallies from within:
While Albert’s train their nightly labour urge,
Till the long channel reached the ocean’s verge.
Their task is ended,—with redoubled force
Flows the glad river in its new-made course,
And Acre’s nymphs at morning’s earliest beam,
Who sought with thirsty urns th’ accustom’d stream,
Already weak with want, with watching pale,
In terror saw the copious river fail;
They call on Alla’s name, their robes they tear,
And beat their breasts, and shriek in wild despair.
 Yet could not Conrad’s soul its hate resign,
Nor Gaul’s proud King with warlike England join;
Their vassals sue, and frequent councils sate,
But fresh invective breeds increase of hate.
Oft Philip’s rage his eager knights restrain’d,
And murmuring, in th’ inglorious camp detain’d,
Forgetful why those sacred plains he trod,
False to his fame, and treacherous to his God:
Nor when he fought, could Montmorency’s might,
Conrad, or Austria, or the Emerald knight,
Command the fate of war; the day’s decline
Oft saw their forced retreat from Saladine,
Till Richard on the victors pouring down,
Redeem’d the half-won wreath, and made the field his own.

Three weeks have pass’d; on Acre’s mouldering wall
Gaunt famine paces, and foredooms her fall.
Beneath enormous engines, day by day
Her ramparts crumble and her towers decay;
 Yet on no lip an angry murmur hung,
Surrender breathed not from one dastard tongue.
Yet had her pride been quell’d, but fever reigns
In Richard’s frame, and wastes his burning veins;
Weak as a babe his sinewy form reclined,
And wild chimæras vex his mighty mind,⁷⁵
Till his good angel, with ætherial touch,
Compels the lingering demon from his couch;
His sunken eye reviving light illumes,
And his high soul the schemes of war resumes.
Augustus, jealous of his rival’s arms,
Watch’d his returning strength with new alarms;
He vows to seize his prey, his heralds wait
On Asia’s King, and treat of Acre’s fate.
The Soldan, anxious to redeem the brave,
Yet scorn’d the haughty terms his avarice gave,
And Acre’s warriors vow’d nor fire, nor sword,
Nor want should bow them to so stern a lord.⁷⁶
Again Augustus sent: he craves to meet
The Arabian Ruler, and in person treat.
“No,” cried the Soldan, “first must discord cease,
We hold that Monarchs can but meet in peace;
I could not here behold your Sovereign rest,
Nor spread the banquet for my princely guest.
’Twere strange, if, rising from the friendly board,
Our hands again should grasp the hostile sword.”
 Meanwhile, unconscious of the snare below,
Impatient Richard plans a final blow;
To every post his battering train has drawn,
And fix’d the onset for the morrow’s dawn.
That night, before his tent in pensive mood,
The purple concave restless Albert vie’d,
And oft while thinking of his lonely bride,
To the mute stars his secret sorrows sigh’d.
 “Remote from thee, how slow the moments move!
Increasing distance adds new force to love.
If but to Europe’s neighbouring shores I roam,
Less keen the pang,—still something breathes of home;
But in these wilds not man alone is strange,
Beasts, birds, and plants, e’en hours and seasons change;
Each moment gives the sad reflection birth,
I see another heaven, another earth;
I cannot think that now thy dewy eyes
Watch yon bright planet through the purple skies;
No! when thou turn’st to court the placid moon,
On burning sands we dread the sultry noon;
And when thy landscape sparkles in the morn,
Here stars unknown the stranger heaven adorn.
I feel the lavish dews of night descend,
I see the skies unwonted radiance lend:
But vain their lustre, from thy presence driven
I long for Europe’s less refulgent heaven,
And thy soft smile, more pleasing to my sight
Than all the splendours of a Syrian night.”
 Late sunk the warrior to his troubled rest,
And woke ere morning glimmer’d in the east.
He past to Pardo’s tent;—prepared for fight,
His burnish’d armour caught the doubtful light;
A silver gauze was on the leopard shield,
Till fame should bid its blazon stand reveal’d.⁷⁷
But all was silent, till Ricardo came
Pale from his vigils near his thoughtless dame.
“Up, Pardo! boaster, up! I little guest
That we must rouse thine eager soul from rest!”
No answer breath’d,—aloud they call’d again,
They search his tent, and wake his squires in vain.
 “Ha!” laugh’d Ricardo, “does some damsel keep
His secret thoughts, and chase his vaunted sleep?”
“Say, rather,” Albert cried, with terror thrill’d,
“Does some rash venture lure him to the field?
Oh! why so secret to his friend? and why
To share his danger or his fame deny?”

It chanced that Philip, more devoted far
To courtly pleasures than the toils of war,
Had brought to Palestine a countless race
Of hounds accomplished, trained to every chase,
And fearless falcons, that would even dare
Their own fierce monarch in his realms of air.
One morn the fleetest, best beloved of all,
His jesses broke and flew to Acre’s wall,
And Philip, grieved to see his favourite roam,
A thousand marks proclaimed to him should lure him home.^r
 With all a warrior’s wrath young Pardo heard
Such princely ransom offer’d for a bird;
Yet,—for wild perils ever pleased him best,—
He scorn’d the gold, but vow’d to try the quest.
 Clad in light arms, alone he took his way,
And scarcely waiting for the close of day,
Wrapt in his mantle, sought the town so near,
The oft repeated watch-word met his ear.
The truant bird upon a turret’s height
There sate unshelter’d from the dews of night,
And while less dear its late-won freedom grew,
Regrets its dainty fare and gilded mew.
The Knight’s soft whistle bids its slumber fly,
Instinctive it obeys, and flutters nigh;
Then fears the stranger voice, or, moved again
By powerful nature, loathes its silver chain,
Eludes his grasp, nor heeds the frequent calls
That check returning sleep, and chase it round the walls.
 Long, long he follows, till at midnight hour
The falcon lighting on th’ Accursed Tower,
Seemed like some demon on the fated wall
Malignant perch’d, portentous of its fall.
 How oft, when wilder’d long in error’s night,
Truth’s daylight lustre flashes on our sight!
The darkness flies like mists when morning glows,
And Reason questions, whence that darkness rose?—
Thus Pardo, musing now where art had led
Th’ obedient river from its ancient bed,
Felt, as at once the Heaven-sent impulse shone,
Through that deserted course to reach the town.
To think and act were one, he lingers not
To seek a comrade’s aid; the bird forgot,
And with his pointed dagger arm’d alone,
He strikes the turf and time-cemented stone,
Fearful lest foes surprise him, or the sun,
With envious beam, reveal his work half done.
At length his toils a narrow opening win,
The trampled earth gives way and crumbles in;
Now by his hands he hung, and, rashly bold,
But breathed a prayer succinct, and loosed his hold.
Saved by the moisture lingering yet below,
Where erst the deepest stream was wont to flow,
Unharm’d he rose, without one guiding ray,
And groped along the side his dangerous way,
Save when his arms in rough collision call
Short gleams of splendour from the flinty wall.
Oh! should he wander in the dreadful gloom?
Should waves engulph him, should some pit entomb?
Or that mephitic damp, whose baleful breath
Haunts the deep cavern, lull him into death?—
But hail that stream of pure and fragrant air!
Hail to that ruddy beam! success is there.
 Where late the river sparkled from its cave,
A pompous arch had spann’d the dashing wave,
Before its mouth the crackling faggots burn,
And Arabs watch;—oh! should the stream return!
Tall reeds that in the humid channel grew,
Concealed the listening warrior from their view,
While dimm’d with clay, his arms, his unsheath’d sword
Had now no lustre to betray their lord:
Though oft between him and the bickering flame
Gigantic, dark, the martial figures came.
He heard them speak of famine, thirst, and woe,
The tottering towers, the valour of the foe;
That, should their morning sally, nor the might
Of Adel aid them, they must yield at night.
Then when at sunrise other troops prepared
To change the watch, and rest the weary guard,
Unmark’d he sprang, and snatch’d with venturous hand,
Full from the piny pile a blazing brand;
And traced his backward course with steps so fleet,
An eagle’s pinions seem’d to buoy his feet.

But Gaul’s insidious King again had sent
His secret herald to the Soldan’s tent,
What time to Saladine a soldier bore
An arrow, shot from Acre’s nearest tower;
Its barbed point a fatal scroll revealed,
“Famine surrounds me; aid us, or we yield.”—
“Alas! my Karacous, how great must be
The weight of woe that draws complaint from thee!”
Exclaim’d the anxious Soldan, as in haste
His rapid hand the needful mandate traced:
“A Gallic herald waits. Maintain the fight;
Or aid, or terms, I promise ere the night:”—
He wrote, and sought a messenger to bear,
Unseen, his bidding thro’ the trackless air.
Far from the callow nestlings of her love,
Sate mournful in her cage a spotless dove.
The gentle bird her welcome duty knew,
And at his call with joyful instinct flew,
And raised her wing obedient, while his hand
Fix’d the small tablet by a silken band.
One moment on her smiling master’s breast,
As in a loved sojourn, she paused to rest,
Rais’d to his face her mild and grateful eye,
Then spread her wings and vanish’d in the sky.^s
 Meanwhile the earliest beam of orient day
Call’d round the English King his proud array.
So rich their mail, their arms so burnish’d bright,
Their helms, their lances, so profuse of light,
Their shields so precious from the limner’s art,
They seem adorn’d to play some festal part;
But they, so late in beauty’s halcyon hour
The grace, the glory, of her glittering bower;
Skill’d every courtly revel to prolong,
And every fleeting joy embalm in song;
When fame invites, regard nor toil nor scar,
Gentle in peace, but thunderbolts in war.
 Young Pardo now rush’d in, and from his hand
Cast the poor relics of his guiding brand:
“What, Pardo! thou, so active and so gay,
Why now so late? and thus besmear’d with clay?”
 “An hour has scarcely fled,” the youth exclaim’d,
“Since that expiring brand in Acre flam’d;
I snatch’d it from the pyre, and yonder sun
Shall see it light the flames that blaze for Acre won.”
He paus’d an instant, then in breathless haste,
All his long labours of the night retraced.
 “Oh! thou rash youth! yet in thy rashness dear,”
The Monarch cried, “what daring deed is here!
Must all our veteran cheeks be red with shame,
While Acre’s trophies swell a stripling’s fame?
Enough—when eve her glimmering light shall lend,
By Pardo led, to victory we descend.”
 Scarce had he spoke, when in the air above
A hungry falcon chased a beauteous dove;
Who drawing courage in her last despair,
For man, once feared, forsakes the fields of air;
And, as on meaner perch she scorn’d to rest,
Instinctive refuge took in Richard’s breast;⁷⁷
While Pardo, as it blindly followed, caught
The wayward falcon, long so vainly sought.
 Upon the Monarch’s silken scarf reposed,
Soon the faint bird her meek dark eyes unclosed,
While Richard mark’d, and loos’d the silken string
That bound the fateful billet to her wing.
Incensed he read, “Yes! while we bleed, we toil,
To win these ramparts, Philip steals the spoil!
The fight he shuns, yet basely treats alone
For secret render of the falling town.
E’en now perchance he robs us of our right!—
Pardo, thine ambush must not wait for night;
Tell Raymond France is false, but fortune ours;
Then while again we storm those crumbling towers,
Lead thou his warriors through the secret track—
’Tis Albert’s charge to turn the sally back.”

Meanwhile the dove her lingering course pursued
To Acre, where ten thousand warriors stood,
With upward glance, and watch’d with stifled breath,
The guiltless messenger of life or death.
Why comes she not as wont, with joyous spring
To yield her charge, and rest her wearied wing?
Too soon they guess’d, too soon in mute despair
Perceived her flagging plumes and drooping air.
No outward hurt her smooth white down display’d,
But, inly conscious of her trust betrayed,
Far from her mate she took her lonely stand,
Shunn’d all once loved, but most her master’s hand;
To hear his call, to taste his bread denied,
Sate silent on her perch, and pined, and died.

Book VI

The Capture of Acre

Now wakes the contest—now those frames of wood,
That vast and high, in uncouth stillness stood,
Are all instinct with life;— Balistæ pour
The flaming Phalaric, or the stony shower;⁷⁸
With ceaseless blow the heavy Ram is swung,
And blazing oils in dreadful tempest flung.
In vain the Moslems from the heights dispense
All that can wound the frame, or shock the sense;
The limbs of mangled comrades, sheets of flame,
And poison’d arrows, kindling as they came;
And wheels, those missiles most accurst and dire,
That wrap the struggling wretch in rings of fire.
In vain the clarions brayed, with awful clang
Boomed the deep gong, and batter’d armour rang,—
The Christians still press on; the tortoise spreads
Its mighty buckler o’er their fearless heads;
They heap the fosse, they mine the tower, they rear
Their ladders high, and mount undaunted there;
Those frail supports give way, or from the wall,
Hurl’d headlong down, o’erwhelm them in their fall;
Yet still they climb anew, they storm the height,
And from their comrades’ shoulders urge the fight.
 Against th’ “Accursed Tower” the Monarch set
His favourite engine, vaunted “Robynette,”
This Jerworth rules; by sixty winters bent,
His vigorous frame still proved his proud descent
From Caradoc, whose arm of steel might claim,
’Mid Arthur’s Paladins no second fame,
The faithful partner of the truest dame,
The soul of war^a—in youth had Jerworth’s hand,
With England wrestled for his native land;
And latest near the dying Hoel stood,
When the blue Ceriog blush’d with Cambrian blood;
Nor now less valiant, as the masses break,
With blows redoubled, and the ramparts shake,
Himself directs the Ram, and bending low,
Lends all his vigour to the mighty blow.
But Mestoc mark’d him, and the dart impell’d—
Too sure a course the fated weapon held;
And where the casque and plated mail combine,
Pierced through th’ unguarded neck, and reach’d the spine.
Oft when sweet Spring with music loads the gale,
Shall Mona’s Bards his silent harp bewail;
Oft, when solstitial storms unbridled roar,
And snow is drifting on her mountain shore,
Lament for one who wiled those nights away
With tales of climes beyond the setting day:—
For Jerworth sail’d with him whose patriot pride
Disdain’d a conqueror’s yoke, across the tide
Where never yet had venturous pilot steer’d,
Nor Celtic speech, nor name of Christ was heard;
Where all to them was strange, and they to all—
Who won a kingdom, reared th’ embattled wall,
Preach’d in Mexitli’s fane th’ Eternal Word,
And bow’d the strength of Astlan to his sword;⁷⁹
With Madoc he return’d, but not again
Stemm’d with that daring Prince th’ Atlantic main;
He staid, above his mother’s grave to rear
The votive roses, nurst with many a tear;
Till England’s Primate, in his vigorous age,
Relumed the Christian’s zeal, the warrior’s rage;
What time the priest, in sacred pilgrimage,
While countless miracles attest his truth,
Call’d to the Holy War the Cambrian youth.⁸⁰
 Not unavenged he fell, his javelin leaves
King Richard’s hand, and Mestoc’s side receives
Beneath his lifted arm!—it spared the life,
But forced th’ unwilling Emir from the strife.
Meanwhile the King, who mark’d his warriors fly
The fate of Jerworth, lifts his voice on high:
“And can ye tremble, Christians! ye who fight
For Him who framed yon firmament of light;
Him whose least word could crush yon rebel towers,
Or arm embattled hosts of angel powers?
But he to us ordains them, bids us dare
The might of hell, and earn salvation there.
Think of your sires, that o’er this race prevail’d,
Whom rescued Solyma triumphant hail’d;
Whose names th’ eternal scrolls of heaven record,
Then ‘woe to him who wears a stainless sword.’”⁸¹
 His rallying troops th’ inspiring call obey,
Again the missiles fly, the engines play;
He guides the dread Petraria,⁸² high he heaves
A rocky mass; the whistling air it cleaves,
It strikes the ramparts; by its weight o’erthrown,
Twelve gasping Moslems sink beneath the stone.⁸³
Again he loosed the engine, hurl’d below,
The batter’d fort receives the fatal blow,
Where Philip late had forced the breach; in haste
To prop the tower were wooden stancheons placed,
All seem’d secure, but now the facings fall,
And the crush’d stone betrays th’ imperfect wall.
“A torch!” the Monarch cried, and Rodney’s hand
Snatch’d with undaunted zeal the flaming brand;
The Moslems mark th’ attempt, and from the height
Shower all their fury on the daring Knight;
Unharm’d he moves beneath his lifted shield,
And thrice rush’d on, but thrice compell’d to yield;
Again advanced, while England’s archers drove
The wounded Syrians from the walls above;
’Twas then that Karacous infuriate spoke:
“Is death more fearful than the Christian yoke?
Women of Asia! forward to the wall,
What boots your dastard lives, if Acre fall?”
He spoke, nor pausing, with tremendous blow
Sends half the frowning battlement below;
Just as the Knight the fatal flame applies,
Crush’d by the weight a shapeless mass he lies,
Commends his parting soul to Heaven, and dies!
 Grieved, yet unaw’d, the King review’d his bands,
No venturous Knight the dangerous task demands;
He smiled, and by his courage ruled alone,
“’Tis well,” he cried, “this glory is my own!”—
Then rose the general shout, his warriors spread
Their broad tough bucklers o’er their Sovereign’s head.
Again the Syrian Chief dismiss’d the spear,
And aim’d too well, for Richard’s fate was there;
But a young knight, intrepid, rush’d between,
And made his bleeding breast his Monarch’s screen.
As his sad squires bore off their fainting load,
One hasty glance the grateful King bestow’d;
But paus’d not in his course, “On! on!” he cries,
He reached the tower, the bickering flames arise.
 “Oh, water! water!” Long that fearful cry
Had Acre heard, nor found her springs reply;
All shrunk in dust, so well with Richard’s care
The cloudless skies conspired, and glowing air,
Not her drain’d tanks, nor yet her treacherous stream
Could yield one drop to check that spreading flame;
The heavy ramparts nod, the fires devour
Their last support—down falls th’ “Accursed Tower.”
 “On to the breach, ye flower of England, on!
The city falls, th’ invincible is won.”
“Not yet, blasphemers!” Karacous replies,
And by his hand the youthful Osbert dies;^b
Osbert, of Clinton’s blood, whose knightly grace
And gentle worth adorned his noble race.
Rotrou of Perche next storms the yawning breach,
His rapid blows th’ opposing Azim reach;
But soon a blazing hoop enwreathed them round,
In one infernal orb of torture bound,
They fight, they writhe, they struggle on the ground,
Till kindred fire their gallant limbs consume,
Foes in their lives, companions in the tomb.
 First on the height, uncheck’d by hosts of foes,
The Moslem dread, Plantagenet arose;
Next Bertrand sprung, the peril of the strife,
Wounds, clamour, death, to him were joy, were life;
His was an ardent heart, in youth deprest
By one sad blow, it sunk, but not to rest;
He loved to set his wealth upon the die,
He loved the banquets of intemperate joy,
The bleeding hurry of the battle plain,
Whate’er could rouse that heart to feel again.
 The warriors follow fast, yet scarce behold
Mosques, cupolas, and minarets of gold,
And blossom’d groves, when lo! a wall of fire
Shuts out each marble dome, each glittering spire!
Vast piles of wood, for other labours placed,
And heaps of useless engines, fired in haste,
Oppose their progress; but the Monarch cast
One glance inspiring, “It must fade at last!
Even now it fades! beyond are fame or death,
The spoils of Acre, or the martyr’s wreath.”
Now ranged behind, a wall of steel appears,
So close the bucklers joined and glittering spears.
“’Tis well!” again the ardent Richard cries,
“The truly brave would scorn too cheap a prize.”
But was it lowering storm, or wizard spell,
That on the fight unnatural darkness fell!
No storm, for cloudless is th’ ætherial blue,
Nor is it sober twilight’s solemn hue,
Nor the chaste smile of Cynthia’s summer night,
Her broad deep shadows, and her silver light.
Yet to their nests the screaming ravens fly,
And stars are glimmering in the mid-day sky!
Cold breathes the altered gale, a livid shade
Dims every brow, the glowing banners fade;
The moon invades the sun, whose golden ray,
Bright in solstitial pride, contests her sway.⁸⁴
 Still at th’ appointed hour the awful night
Spreads her black veil, the morn her saffron light;
Wrapt in the snowy tempest Winter comes,
And bounteous Spring in fragrant mildness blooms.
Nor pauses man, to question why or whence,
For the familiar wonder palls the sense.
He deems it awful, when the tempests wake
The mountain echoes, when the forests shake,
When lightning gilds the dark, and the gnarl’d oak,
That braved a thousand winters, feels the stroke.
Yet are those solemn changes most sublime,
That bursting seldom from the womb of Time,
Recall th’ Almighty Architect, and hold
Their silent course, foreseen but not control’d;—
That, breaking Nature’s common laws, sustain,
Her vast, immutable, eternal reign.
 The warring armies paus’d, and every eye,
In mute devotion, sought the darken’d sky.
“Ha! King of England, mark’st thou yonder sun?
As erst when Sion by our arms was won,⁸⁵
That boasted emblem of thy Christian creed
Wanes to a crescent—do I rightly read?”
 “Aye! for that Crescent shall expire as soon
As yon bright orb shakes off th’ invading moon.
Come! thou that gavest those vaunting accents breath,
Come if thou darest! and prove it by thy death.”
 In murder’d Alberic’s costly mail indued,
The giant son of Acre’s ruler stood.
“Methink’st this spoil may teach your trembling host
That Aralchaïs breathes no idle boast.”
He spoke; his hands the crooked sabre wield,
But dauntless Richard on his lion shield
Received, nor shrunk beneath the powerful stroke,
Nor flew the buckler, nor the weapon broke.
Wondering the Moslem gazed,—but Richard now,
That shield uplifting, with the sudden blow
Dash’d him to earth—upon his side he prest
His sinewy knee, and pierced his ample chest.
“Winton,”^c he said, “strip thou this braggart foe,
And bear his spoils to Philip—bid him know
That I aveng’d his Marshal.”—Then again
To the fierce charge he leads his eager train;
They break the adverse ranks, and hurrying on,
With blood and clamour fill the spacious town.
But louder than the angry din of war,
The voice of Karacous resounds afar:
“Hold, thou that slay’st the fairest of the fold,
Thou murdrous Lion, scourge of Islam; hold!
Hear, and let terror cloud thy brutal joy,
A childless father claims his valiant boy,
His Aralchaïs.”—Stem the veteran stood,
His sabre reeking with a hero’s blood;
The blood of Mowbray, o’er whose castle gate
The helmet hung in hospitable state;
Where still the warmest seat and choicest wine
Hail’d the tired pilgrim from the holy shrine;
Who to tne Templars many a wide domain
Gave with a liberal hand, nor gave in vain;
Once had they saved him from the Soldan’s chain,^d
And sent to England,—happy if no more
His pious feet had trod the Syrian shore;
Yet to his worth a martyr’s crown is given,
On earth he slumbers, to awake in Heaven.
 Now met the warriors; Richard casts below
A look of wonder on his pigmy foe,
With limbs curtail’d, unequal, and deform’d,
But the rude clay a soul of valour warm’d.
“Exult not, Monarch, in thy towering height,
Thy fair proportion, or thy boasted might;
The loftiest cedar feels the woodman’s stroke,
And the red lightning strikes the proudest rock:
’Tis I have shed your Christian blood like rain,
And made one grave of all yon ample plain.
I bid thee now thy fancied spoil resign,
For while I breathe believe not Acre thine;
The city’s fate is on our swords, on high
The vulture whets her beak, and knows that one shall die.”
 Each held a spear, but, by one impulse sway’d,
Cast it to earth, and drew the deadlier blade.
The sword of Karacous, in Beder’s field
And Bosra’s, once had Ali’s strength impell’d,
That giant strength whose single effort slew
The mail-clad warrior and the courser too.
But Richard’s magic steel, six ages gone,
Was fram’d by Merlin for Pendragon’s son.
The sage, lest meaner hand its edge should wield,
In wild romance the Monarch’s death conceal’d;
How, nurs’d by fairies in their bowers of bloom,
Th’ awakening hero should his reign resume.
But time reveal’d the truth—to England’s King
Of Arthur’s grave the bards of Gwyneth sing;
He sought fair Avalon’s romantic isle,
Where Severn circles Glaston’s time-worn pile,
And raised the stone beneath her altar’s shade,
Where by Geneura’s side the Monarch laid;
Time had not changed his form, august though pale,
Nor loos’d one rivet from his iron mail.
Kneeling, the King evoked the mighty dead,
Whose hand relaxing loos’d the gifted blade,
Then vow’d that sword, by favouring powers bestow’d,
Should fight the battles of his injur’d God.^e
Now first he wields it, and with forceful sway
Rends half th’ Egyptian’s turban’d casque away.
But Karacous, with strength that more became
The arm of Ali than his stunted frame,
Strikes on the groin, and though the hauberk broke
Its force, the palsied limb confest the stroke;
Nor might the staggering King the blow repell
When on his arm the heavy sabre fell,
And but a chain the precious weapon bound,
Th’ unrivall’d Caliburn had press’d the ground.
“Spirit of Arthur! dost thou see,” he said,
“How ill this coward hand deserves thy blade!”
Stung with the thought he smites his gallant foe
Full on the chest, and blood succeeds the blow.
Now pours the storm of mutual wrath amain,
Nor e’er those gifted weapons fell in vain,—
For where no crimson current mark’d the stroke
Helmet and shield were pierced, and corselet broke.
But Richard’s height, (though both alike were brave)
And length of arm superior vantage gave;
Till Karacous, who bled from many a wound,
Indignant flung his buckler to the ground;
Now with sinister hand the sabre held,
Now with the right, and now with both impell’d.
“Not, not alone!” he cried—but Richard’s care
Check’d on his shield the effort of despair;
For where the dexter lion frown’d, the sword
Stuck in the golden mass; nor might its lord
Again withdraw, for Richard’s angry thrust
Pierced through his side, and hurl’d him to the dust:
Yet fighting to the last, the vital breath
He yields unwilling, and contends witb death.
“Proud conqueror, lay me by my gallant boy,
And thou, Mahommed, ope thy gates of joy.”
 “Eternal source of good!” the victor cries,
As on the corse he fixed his thoughtful eyes,
“Is there no mercy? shall the trumpet wake
That gallant soul to haunt the penal lake?
Alas! his hope is built on sand; his trust,
Like Sodom’s glittering fruit, shall fade in dust.”
A shout arous’d him! from the citadel,
On the glad breeze the notes of triumph swell;
From its high towers, in conquering pride unroll’d,
The red cross flames, the lion burns in gold;
For Pardo by the stream’s deserted bed
With brave Thoulouse his bold Provencals led;
Through frighted streets with eager haste they flew,
Astonish’d all, dispers’d, o’erwhelm’d or slew.
In vain the citadel her portals barr’d,
They scaled the heights, o’erpower’d the feeble guard,
And made it theirs, while all that should defend,
Against the King their fruitless valour spend.
 But ah! while victory calls his careless host
From Richard’s side, shall Richard’s self be lost?
A band of foes, that strove to force their way
From the fall’n town, perceive the royal prey,—
They thank their Prophet, from their phalanx spring,
Enclose him round, and shout “the King! the King!”⁸⁶
 “The King alone!” a voice familiar cried,
Young Pardo’s blows the yielding train divide,
He springs exulting to his sovereign’s side.
His troop succeeds, again the war they wage,
And, warm with fight, the yielding foe engage.
Amid the ranks, all red with Christian blood,
An Arab Prince, the bold Almanzor stood;
The dark egret, whose jewell’d sprays were seen
’Mid the rich foldings of his turban green,
Revealed his rank, while in that verdant hue
Respectful slaves the Caaba’s pilgrim knew;
He struck the youth, and from his arm he drew
A crimson current, bright as ever dyed
The insect-laboured gem of Omar’s tide.
With toil, with joy exhausted, with the pain,
Whose burning smart he never knew till then,
He faints—the Monarch caught him in his fall,
And, thus encumber’d, fights, and baffles all!
He dreads no danger from th’ unequal strife,
And trembles only for his favourite’s life.
But soon that livid cheek was flush’d with shame,
From Pardo’s eyes indignant lightning came,
He starts, in haste he binds the bleeding wound,
And wheels again his trenchant faulchion round;
While Richard through the shrinking numbers flies,
The great Almanzor singles and defies.
Seldom had either met an equal foe;
Careless at first they give the random blow,
Then, by experience taught, rejoice to feel
Their rival’s worth, and summon all their skill.
They strike, they turn, they bend; the fell intent
Read in the eye,—they read it and prevent.
That scented scymitar of Syrian frame^f
Swift, like the flash of Summer lightning came,
Tough, supple, keen; but Richard’s shield defied,
Or Richard’s cunning turn’d the stroke aside,
Or impotent its baffled fury fell
On the tough chainwork of his Norman mail.
Not so the Monarch’s sword, though shunn’d with care,
Frequent its guiltless force was spent in air,
Nor Asia’s hardest steel, in happy hour,
Temper’d with magic herbs and words of power,
Nor yet the Koran’s holiest text, though brought
Even from his Prophet’s gifted tomb, and wrought
By vestals on his silken vest, defends
The bleeding flesh where Caliburn descends;
And now, though stiff with gems and woven gold,
It pierced the Mecca turban’s verdant fold,
Through the rich plaits the purple torrents flow,
Almanzor reels, he falls beneath the blow.
 Who next shall bleed? lo! only Pardo near,
Pours all his rapture in the Monarch’s ear;
Now doubly joyous that his Sovereign’s smile
Approves his prudence, and rewards his toil.
 Nor with a fate less prosperous Albert waits
Th’ expected sally from the Patriarch’s gates.
Happy that Syrian who survived to tell
To Asia’s Monarch how his comrades fell!
While o’er the heaps of dead the victors pour,
Force back the closing gates, and win the tower.
 Nor less through Acre’s streets, by Leicester led,
The English host her desert homes invade,
Till all, or slain, or captive, own their power,
Till Christian ensigns stream from every tower;
Those walls that England conquer’d first, alone
Her Lion-flag forgets to mark its own.
From what slight fault gigantic ills appear!
For, like that little cloud the Prophet’s prayer
Called from the deep, that error shall expand,
Till its black shadow darkens all the land.
Slight is the joy that shines in smiles, alone,
In silent tears is warmer rapture shewn:
But there’s a higher agony of bliss,
That knows nor tears nor smiles,—and such was this,
Such Richard felt;—so many conflicts past,
His prayer, his nightly dream fulfill’d at last.
And was She his, that city, dearly won
As Jove-prop’d Ilion, she whose every stone
Had cost a martyr’s blood, whose impious pride
For three long years the Christian world defied?
Defiled the Cross, blasphemed each holiest name,
And gave her captive foes to lingering flame!^g
In one long upward look his thanks were given,
His silent gratitude communed with Heaven.

Meanwhile with Saladine the heralds met,
And vain demands drew on a vain debate;
Till hark! that shriek from shuddering Islam sent!
He draws the silken curtains of his tent,—
One look reveals the whole; his sickening sight
Turns from that Cross on Acre’s ramparts bright.
That slow disease, still watchful for the hour
When cankering cares the harass’d frame devour,
Holds its permitted reign, and round their lord
His servants tremble for a life adored.^h

Nor envious Philip read with less affright
A rival’s fame on every banner’d height;
His avarice by that prompt success betray’d,
His promised glories sunk in sudden shade.
But Austria’s crafty Duke, whose thirst of gold,
His love, his hate, and even his fears controll’d,
Resolves to share the spoil;—he calls his powers,
Flies to the town, and mounts the conquer’d towers,
And (for no banner there in mastery shone)
His flag, presumptuous, marks them as his own.
His troops, whose scanty hire but ill was paid,⁸⁷
For pillage ripe, his welcome call obey’d;
With Bertrand join’d, their bloody way they force,
And shrieks, and flames, and ruin mark their course.
But поw the King, attentive to repair
The yawning breach his fury batter’d there,
Inspects th’ Accursed Tower,—amazed, he knew
The golden Larks upon their field of blue.
“What means this insult? By those powers that crown
My conquering arms, I bid the pageant down!
Say whence, proud Duke, this daring madness springs,
To mate thy banner with the badge of Kings?ⁱ
Even on this tower, beneath that conscious sun
Which saw its ramparts by my valour won,
Canst thou believe I tamely will behold
Another’s flag? the flag of Leopold?
Sooth! were thine own Imperial Suzerain near,
He well might dread to plant his eagle here.
Conrad alone, that Heaven and man defies,—
But words are idle,—there thy banner lies!”
Even as he spoke, beneath his sword it falls,
Th’ offending ensign tumbles from the walls;
’Mid heaps of carnage in the moat it roll’d,
And dust and blood defiled the gaudy gold.
In wonder speechless stood its raging lord,
His threatening eyes flash fire, he grasps his sword.
 “Hold! haughty Chief,” again the Monarch spoke,
“Nor farther yet my righteous ire provoke,
I dread thee not;—yet pardon if my tongue,
By sudden anger moved, have done thee wrong.
What though sole victor o’er this stubborn town,
The glory is and shall be all my own;
I know the rights of three long years of toil,
And thou, and all, shall share her lawful spoil;
But I endure no plunder—late I knew
A lawless band, who bore thy cross of blue:—
Recall them, for should one red hand be stain’d
With needless blood, one sacred shrine profan’d,
By Heaven’s bright throne, though Lydia’s gold were there,
And India’s gems, that wealth they should not share.”
 Many there are to dare, but not uphold
The guilty deed, and such was Leopold.
Brave as the best, if valour lie alone
In shedding blood, or lavishing our own,
Opinion bound him in her stern control,
Nor he, like Conrad, ruled the shrinking soul.
If ever worth or rank might envy claim,
He envied Richard, long’d to blast his fame,
Yet dared not полу his kindled ire resent;
Muttering and pale again he sought his tent.
 “Enjoy thy triumph, Prince! and think my hate
Short as thy wrath, but thou shalt feel it yet;
This outraged flag, which long my fathers bore,
This outraged banner Austria bears no more.⁸⁸
What though in flowers I deign my sting to hide,
’Tis but more surely to abase thy pride;
The shallow waters chafe, but where they sleep
Lurks danger most, for they are dark and deep.”
 But now the King, for all alike prepared,
Surveys the town, the towers, appoints the guard;
Gracious to all, a just attention paid,
Captive and friend, the dying and the dead.
Freed from th’ incumbent load, a warlike bier
Now Rodney graced, and claim’d a passing tear;
Twined round his mangled limb, the Monarch’s eyes
Its azure cincture mark, and thus he cries:
 “Lo! first of those to whom that badge I gave,
The gallant Rodney bears it to his grave:
Thus may ye live to glory,—thus may all
In life adorn it, honour in their fall.
But say—who now the vacant prize shall grace,
Who best deserves to fill a hero’s place?—
Thanks, my brave Peers, for this your silent voice,
Those speaking looks that single out my choice.
Pardo, if right thy generous heart I see,
Nor rank nor riches have such charms for thee;
This kindled envy once—young Knight, t’were wrong,
That heart like thine should strive with envy long;
With thee our fame in Acre’s fall is shared,
Nor favour gives it, ’tis thy just reward.
Long since my love had given, and love alone
Deferr’d the guerdon, till thy worth had won.”
From his own knee meanwhile with ready hand
He loosens, and presents the azure band.
 But Pardo’s swelling heart no words supplied,
Kneeling he kiss’d the badge, and flew to hide
The bursting stream of gratitude and pride.
 “One debt remains,” the generous Monarch said,
“A Knight whose shield a clouded moon displayed,
Whose legend mourn’d injustice—if severe
His hurt forbid not, lead the warrior here.”
 Borne on a litter came the wounded Knight,
And shunn’d with downcast looks his Sovereign’s sight.
But vainly he a well known face coneeal’d,
The Monarch paus’d, then rais’d the pictur’d shield:
“Say, my young friend, what clouds thy opening morn?
What wrongs oppress, what injury hast thou borne?
Why dost thou fight disguised? why leave behind
Thy train, nor give thy banner to the wind?
Why not to me thy secret sorrows bring,
And claim his ready justice from thy King?—
Thou answer’st not, De Carreo! must I then,
Where I had hoped to praise, reprove agen?
The forest laws my royal fathers framed,
By thy rash youth were outraged, and I blamed:
For this resigns’t thou thy paternal state?
Was I unjust? or think’st thou I forget
The blood that from the Chiefs of Norway springs,
Thy sires ennobled ere my own were Kings?
Through whom my father’s yoke proud Gwyneth bore,
Through whom I rule Ierne’s emerald shore;
Thy noble parent, in whose guardian power
My mother rests, and Windsor’s regal tower?
Or think’st thou I forget his loyal son
Who for my menaced life exposed his own?
Give me thy banner;”—once again outspread,
The silver saltier parts the sanguine red.
He lopp’d the pennon’s forked points,^j and said—
“Disdain not from a grateful Sovereign’s hand
A nobler banner, and enlarged command;
To thee the fame of Othoer’s race I trust:
Now prove him false that called his King unjust.”^k
 “Now most unjust,” the blushing youth replied,
“My pride transgress’d, and thou reward’st my pride.
What wond’rous power thy princely soul displays,
With gifts to humble, with reproof to raise!
How I receive the lesson, Sire, my speech
Is poor to utter, but my life shall teach.”
 Faint he sunk back, the King’s attentive mind
To his own Leech th’ exhausted Knight consign’d.⁸⁹
Then sought Almanzor’s couch, whose desperate hand
Tore from his bleeding brow the healing band:
Unmoved by Ermengard, he mocks his prayers,
His pious skill, and unrelaxing cares,
And vows that never Infidel shall shed
His hateful ointments on a Hadji’s head.
“Brave Emir,” spoke the King with generous heat,
“I love that spirit, proudest in defeat;
Yet for thy future fame consent to live,
And ask whate’er a Monarch’s power can give.”
 “What canst thou give, thou murderer of my fame,
Thou canst not give me back a warrior’s name!
Yes! I will live, but live alone that thou
May’st lie my thrall, as I before thee now;
A living victim long thou should’st not be,
I scorn thy mercies, Christian dog, and thee.
Yet if thy words be not the idle breath
Of one whose secret malice seeks my death,
Send me to him I love, and Saladine
Shall teach to quell that arm which humbled mine.”
 “So be it, Prince, as to thy grasp I yield
This glove, my pledge to meet thee in the field,
And on my casque thy proud egret will wear,
Nor wear dishonours; not thyself shall dare
To think it tarnish’d, when thou seest it there.”

’Tis night, and Pardo with a chosen power
Protects the gate that leads from David’s tower.
The rising moon two female forms betray’d,
Who linger’d near, and seem’d to court the shade;
Seized by his warriors, one of matron years,
Drops her coarse veil, and through contending tears
Speaks of the robbers that had come by night,
And insults to her child that counsell’d flight.
But accents gentle as the breeze that blows
In amorous fragrance o’er the expanding rose,
And sweet as murmurs of the streams that lave
The frail Mimosa imaged in their wave,
Reproving spoke:—“Dear guardian of my youth,
Stoop’st thou to falsehood who hast taught me truth!
Let guilt from fraud extort her poor defence,
But truth’s the native guard of innocence.
Oh, Knight! nor fear nor insult we endure,
Still are the Haram’s sacred bounds secure.
The city’s fate unknown, I calmly led
Through folds of Syrian silk the golden thread,
When shrieks of woe, resounding from the street,
To the forbidden Golphor lured my feet.
Alas! my sire, whose smile at eve and morn,
Still told or promised of his safe return,
Low on a bier his senseless form was laid,
With honour borne, yet honour’d as the dead;
His bloody turban!—but I saw no more
Till my thick veil my weeping damsels tore,
And said Almanzor lived; but hence removed
To Kaisan’s camp, nor nursed by those he loved.
Can ev’n the generous Saladine supply
A daughter’s cares, or read the asking eye?
Then blame not that, emboldened by despair,
I bade my nurse two barracans prepare,⁹⁰
Such as befit our meanest slaves alone,
So might we pass, I deem’d, unmark’d, unknown:
But ah! how helpless and how weak a flower
Is woman when she quits her guardian bower!
Oh, let me seek its sacred walls again,
To weep I left them, since I left in vain.”
 “No, not in vain! behold a loyal knight
Kneels at thy feet, and vows to aid thy flight;
I grant thy wish, for I believe thy tale,
Yet drop, one instant drop, that envious veil.
Perchance (and I methinks should bless the hour)
The fate of war may lead me to thy bower;
Warriors are rude when rushing from the field,
And I would know thy beauties but to shield,”

As shone the moon, then bursting from a cloud,
So dawn’d Amina from her sable shroud.
’Tis not the diamonds in her raven hair,
Or the strung jasmine wreath’d in contrast there,
The golden links that round her ankles hung,
The belt of perfume o’er her shoulder flung,⁹¹
Her jewell’d caftan, or her shawl of gold,
That the gay youth in mute enchantment hold;
But that fine form that match’d the palm in height,
Firm as the cedar, as the acacia light;
Those eyes, in which a chastened spirit dwells,
Mild as the dove’s, yet bright as the gazelle’s.
Perchance her cheek too warm a glow had won
From the keen ray of Yemen’s fervid sun,
Yet o’er its charms the vivid blush that broke,
Outvied Damascus’ rose, when thus she spoke:
“Not far are those who if this scene they guest,
Might deem their daggers’ fittest sheath my breast;
Yet think not I a spotless fame despise,
If at thy suit I drop my dark disguise,
Nor worse than death abhor a stranger’s eyes.
Though now adorn’d with every Syrian art,
To lure a master’s gaze, not touch his heart;
Such were not once my cares,” she paus’d and sigh’d,
“Ere I was destined for Moheddin’s bride:
The new restraint my liberal soul disdains,
For I was nurs’d on Yemen’s happy plains,
Free as the soaring bird, the mountain gales,
Or streams that leap, rejoicing, to the vales.
My ardent spirit, from my dear kitarr
Delights to call the inspiring strains of war,
Or warriors’ loves, but sickens when I suit
Voluptuous accents to the Persian lute.
I love to bend the bow, to urge the chase,
And on th’ unsaddled courser win the race;
To dress my father’s meal, and twine at eve
Those webs that only Arab maids can weave;^l
Where towering date-trees shade the saffron mead,^m
And tents are pitch’d, and peaceful camels feed;
But weep, now doom’d to waste the breezy morn
In joyless splendour, and in arts I scorn.
Perchance in Syria yet my soul retains
The Grecian fire that warm’d my mother’s veins!
The ire that kindled when she told her doom;
Snatch’d by the ruthless Tartars from her home,
In a rude sack borne o’er the burning sand,
And sold, half-lifeless, to a stranger’s hand.”ⁿ
But steps approach:”— she ceased, and closely drew
The veil which Rezia o’er her features threw.
 “Be swift,” cried Pardo, “ bring my stoutest steed,
Watch well the portal, I return with speed:
For thee, bright damsel, I transgress, nor pause
To risk my fame in beauty’s sacred cause,
Nor fear a generous King the deed will chide;
To friendly hands I pledge me now thy guide;
But duty then requires to break the spell,
And my reluctant lips must breathe farewell.”
 Soon on the steed the grateful dames he placed,
Unbarred the gates and led them forth in haste.
By this the moon withdrew her guiding light,
The dark dense vapours blot th’ etherial height,
From Carmel’s brow the pealing thunders roar,
And the full clouds their angry torrents pour.
Unused to Nature’s frown, Amina’s breast
Heaves with the fears she check’d, but scarce supprest.
And Pardo, filtering in a doubtful track,
Thinks how his Sovereign’s trust commands him back,
When sudden by th’ electric flash was shewn
A warrior near, in armour, but alone.
 “Whoe’er thou art, for by this fitful light
Ill may I read thy lofty crest aright,
Now by thy spurs, I bid thee aid the fair!
Now for the love of holy knighthood swear,
Ere Carmel’s brow with orient crimson shine,
To lead these Arab maids to Saladine.”
 “In simple faith the precious charge to guide
Be mine,” the youth in Eastern speech replied.
“Though I, uncall’d, assume the knightly crest,
Believe that honour fills an Arab’s breast;
I will not sue to hear that maiden’s tale,
Or see one eye beneath her half-raised veil.”
 “And wilt thou leave me,” sigh’d the trembling fair,
“And leave me thus, beneath a stranger’s care?”
 “Alas! sweet maid, may ne’er thy tender heart
Be torn like mine,—unwilling I depart.
Thy charms this night have lured me to forget
A duty that was never irksome yet;
While back to Acre’s joyless walls it leads,
My thoughts will linger where Amina treads.”—
 “Thus, then,” she answered, “if we here must sever,
Thus, like this jasmine, and, alas! for ever,
At least forget not ere its bloom decline
The maid whose heart shall stоге each word of thine.”
Then drooping her fair head, she parts in haste
The fragrant blossoms on her bosom placed;
And had a ray been there, th’ enamour’d Knight
Had found a tear upon its starry white.
 “No, till my death thy memory will be sweet,
If—but brave Arab we at least shall meet;
Ere this I should have ask’d with timely fear,
Thy name, and what thy secret purpose here.”
 “My name I tell not поw, but thou may’st guess
My daring hope, that, careless in success,
Some ill-watch’d fort might yield our valour way,
And night reverse the glories of the day.—
I hoped in vain—farewell, till time shall shew
Thy faithful friend, at least thy generous foe;
My blue egret shall mark me in the field.”—
“And me the milkwhite gauze that veils my shield,”
Rejoin’d young Pardo, as with hasty tread
And sinking heart he left the weeping maid.

Scarce on his midnight watch again he stood
When Albert came, and mark’d his musing mood.
“What! my best friend, my Pardo, art thou sad,
(Thou ever gay I) when all around are glad?
If budding honour thus thy spirit tame,
Heaven shield thee from thy growing weight of fame!
Come, I must rob thee of this gate’s command,
Thy last night’s toil, thy wound, this rest demand;
Go to thy couch—nay, why that louring brow,
Thou prompt’st the taunt I never thought till now:
I will not say ’tis deep, but there is one
Who loves thee as thou wert indeed his son;
How would he grieve to see thy spirit lost,
How mark that sigh! Come, I must have thy post.
Thine is an eye that knows the spells of sleep,
We love-lorn souls, thou say’st, but watch and weep;
If we must watch, it little matters where—
Richardand Love’s commands alike I bear;
Yield to whichever shall рleasе thy fancy best,
Thy friend’s intreaty, or thy King’s behest.”
 “To both,” he cried, “and leave to thee the light,
Thy laughing brow has stolen from mine to night;
It may be that I feel a wound forgot,
That I am weary, though I knew it not.”
 But what bright image haunts his heated brain,
And frights that slumber, ne’er implored in vain?
“An infidel, another’s destined bride,
I could not love, if love were mine,” he cried.
“What witchery this? our ghostly legends tell,
That Demons oft in angel semblance dwell;
Yet, though I perish, ne’er can I believe
Her words unholy—that those looks deceive.”
But hark! that distant strain,—the stormy night
Stills her rude blasts, and listens with delight.
In stoles whose rich embroidery sweeps the ground,
With censers breathing sacred odours round;
With tapers far their holy light revealing,
With solemn music on the darkness stealing;
With waving palms that fresher gales diffuse,
And cleanse each shrine with consecrated dews,
Sage Hubert speeds, amid his priestly train,
Chaunts the high mass, and lustrates every fane.
To Christian rites each blessed dome return’d,
To every Saint the votive incense burn’d,
And monarchs kneel, while zealous prelates raise
The notes of triumph, piety and praise.
How rarely thus, with flowers that never fade,
Religion’s amaranth wreaths the Conqueror’s blade!
Those lofty strains o’er Pardo’s restless mind
Breathed a pure calm, ennobled and refined:
Yet though to prayer his inmost soul was given,
Amina mingled with his thoughts of heaven;
Bright as she shone in Cynthia’s silver beams,
The angel vision cheers his broken dreams.

Far other orgies, other sounds than those,
From Carmel’s dark divan of demons rose;
Abortive guile, and baffled hate were there,
Contention, fury, weakness and despair.—
Each blames his fellows, each himself extols,
Th’ infernal throng Alkarmel scarce controuls.
“What madness, Genii, what blind rage is ours!
Our safety hangs not on yon conquer’d towers.
The wrecks of storm-tost barks that strew the main,
The steams of death that rise from Acre’s plain,
Yon blighted fields, yon heaps of ashes tell
How duly each has labour’d, and how well.
Say next, what evils can our hate conspire,
By fraud, by force, by famine, plague or fire?
The Pest has fell’d whom swords assail’d in vain—
Speak, shall the deadly vapours rise again?
Their course to govern, their success to see,
Superb Moozallil, were a feast for thee.”—
 “No! not for me, abhorr’d Alkarmel!—ask
Thyself or Ullah for so mean a task.
Her toad-like spirit would delight to sip
The last blue venom from each livid lip.
She smiles when by disease the peasant dies,
I joy alone in higher agonies;—
Guilt’s labouring throes, the Hell of vain remorse,
And hate, and virtue writhing at its force.
Vile as the beasts they rode, th’ imperial band
Might wait for thee, I lopp’d the master hand—
Not I Comnenus’ craven soul controlled,
But the fierce Conrad, Bertrand, Leopold,
These are my slaves, and Richard’s, groans shall tell
My skill directs their deadly malice well.
The arrow from a foe would scarce offend,
Infernal hatred points it by a friend.
’Tis like that icy wind, whose odorous breath
Shall woo man’s helpless race to drink their death;⁹²
Or like those scented blades of Syrian steel,
Whose venom’d fragrance aids their power to kill.
Talk not of hope, from us for ever fled,
The truly brave fight on when hope is dead:
Let Adam’s sons her baseless visions trust,
Richardmust triumph, and ye know he must;
But let us keep him from the rich repast,
And drug the nectar he must drink at last.”—
 “And how?” cried Ullah, “not by idle words,
The sole resource Moozallil’s wit affords!”—
 “Peace, murmurer! do not these contentions tell
That discord is the deadliest curse of Hell?
Still in the Christian host the fiend shall reign,
Their efforts palsy,—make success their bane.
Let this suffice, nor farther seek to know,
Till Palestine in shrieks announce the blow.”—
 “But who shall match Plantagenet? for death,”
Mordash began, “arrests the Soldan’s breath.”
 “Restore him—Asia from her terrors freed
Shall thank her Prophet for the specious deed;
Such task befits Maimoune’s gentle mood—
She loves the guilt that wears the mask of good.”
 At this her form assumed a lovelier grace,
A smile just lighten’d on her pensive face;
On roseate clouds she flies, while deeper hate
And deadlier scorn on each swart visage sate.
As fades the moon, with wizard gloom o’erspread,
So darkness deepen’d, when the Peri fled;
Loud rose the voice of wrath, red lightnings glare
And all the furies fright the troubled air.
What spell arrests the storm? below, around,
More felt than heard, and yet it seem’d a sound.
At once they pause, their inward fears betray,
And curse that call they dare not disobey;
While low to earth the abject spirits bow,
And silence reigns where Etna raged but now.
Alone Moozallil stands erect,—his eye
Shoots angry flames, he mocks them as they fly.
“False to yourselves as to your God, away!
Lo Hassan calls, and Hassan’s slaves obey!
Hence! lest th’ Assassin Prince infuriate rise,
And dare arraign the children of the skies;
Lest on some icy peak he bid you pine,
Or deep in earth, in riven rocks confine.
Go! ye that fear a mortal; doubly curst!
Bound to those spells your folly taught him first.
Go! reckless now of your ætherial birth,
To Heaven rebellious, yet the slaves of earth.
For this ye lost the skies; ye would not bow
To man when sinless, yet ye serve him now!
Be Heaven or Hell my lot—delight, disgrace,
I make no compact with the hated race.”
 Meanwhile Maimoune sought th’ Ascanian wave,
Whose limpid tides her fair pavilion lave.
Oft when at noon th’ unrippled face is clear,
Through the blue glass the fairy halls appear,
White as those fanes that time and man defy,
Nor rue one stain from Grecia’s lovely sky.
O’er half the lake the beauteous vision spreads,
Rich gilded domes, and marble colonnades;
While mortals, wandering on the shadowy shore,
Mourn for the buried palaces of yore.⁹³
Here shells in mockery match the frailer flowers
That lend their beauty to our earthly bowers,
Soft banks of moss serenest sleep bestow,
And fragrant rills in soothing murmurs flow.
Nor lack’d there tenderer blossoms, such as give
Th’ ambrosial scents by which the Peries live;
While all around, in rich profusion strown,
’Mid orient pearls the blushing coral shone;
Th’ amber’s liquid light, and many a gem,
Rare as the boast of Stamboul’s diadem.
Maimoune snatch’d a vase; in Paradise
Once had its radiance pleased celestial eyes,
And now, though sullied by her guilty touch,
Its light transcends the gems of earth as much
As Heaven’s inferior angels would outshine
Those charms in Carmel’s synod held divine.
Within that shrine of sunny topaz beams
A lucid wave from Eden’s sainted streams,
With whose blest drops the Peri every day
Wash’d from her brow the stains of earth away
And now, as she through night’s calm æther flew,
Pleased with her task, and conscious that she drew
From that good office, from the vase she bore,
Charms, since her loss of Heaven unknown before;
Flowers from her waving tresses load the wind,
A wake of light and perfume spreads behind,
And from her lips such magic notes distil,
That Moslems deem them strains of israfil.⁹⁴
Where faint and pale, scarce conscious of the sound
Of weeping friends and Imaums chaunting round,
The Soldan lay,—her radiant presence sent
Soft light and freshening odours through the tent;
And as above his wasted form she bent,
Scarce her mild eye severer sadness shews
Than pitying seraphs feel for human woes,
While from her hand Heaven’s own sweet dewdrops came,
Smoothed his distorted brow, and cooled his frame.
Such magic drops, as Grecian poets tell,
From young Aurora’s rosy fingers fell;
Nor more reviving those ambrosial showers
To Tempe’s drooping shrubs and faded flowers;
Nor yet Mahommed’s wounded, weary crew,
From Gilead’s balm diviner virtue drew,
When at his prayers (for so the Suras feign)
The healing grove sprung up on Mecca’s plain,⁹⁵
Than from those blessed drops, indeed divine,
Flow’d through the wasted frame of Saladine.
Nor warm with life, with health renew’d he seems,
Rose with the sun, and blest his golden beams.

Book VII

The March to Arsouf

Nor vain Moozallil’s threats: where’er it fell
His torch awaked the latent fires of Hell!
Till all who fought for Acre’s towers erewhile,
Like ravening vultures now contest her spoil.
At length a seeming calm succeeds the storm,
And fiendish malice wears a fairer form.
With faltering voice, slow step, and visage pale,
The specious Philip gilds his artful tale,
How the long toils his pristine strength overcame,
And Asia’s sun unnerved his northern frame.
“Brother of England! comrade of my youth!
With soul propitious hear the voice of truth.
The city’s fall acquits my vow; the gales
With favouring breath invite me to Marseilles:
Weak as I am, I yet my course delay,
Nor heave one anchor, if thou bid’st me stay.
Oh I had I lived unwedded to a throne,
Drown a free sword, and fought for fame alone,
Not life or Europe proffer aught so dear
As for the Cross to fight and perish here!
But since I more the Christian weal can aid
In France a monarch than in Asia dead,
I bow to Heaven, I seek th’ inglorious West,
And leave the wrongs of Sion unredrest;
Doom’d, when thy triumph rescued realms proclaim,
To curb the jealous pang, and bless thy fame.
Yet,—for my pious zeal unwilling draws
One active weapon from the sacred cause,—
Ten thousand spears, the choicest of my train,
To aid your arms in Otho’s care remain.
Then prove, my friend, though policy or pride
Have sever’d those in happier youth allied,
That, like the nectar in its bloomy cells,
Deep in our hearts one drop of sweetness dwells;
These chiefs have seen our discord, let them see
Thou hold’st my life as dear as thine to me.”^a
He spoke:—not oft to Richard’s generous breast
Suspicion came, or came a welcome guest;
Yet when his rival, with such vain parade,
Asserts a friendship he so oft betray’d,
Distrust awakes, he sees the covert snare,
And feels for England’s weal a sovereign’s care.
“I too, Augustus, have been taught to feel
How ill these feeble bodies serve our zeal:
Thus ever, when an arm of flesh we trust,
We find th’ important lesson, man is dust!
Our early love was like a golden chain,
Not lightly broke, nor broken, join’d again.
If rivalry could here our souls inflame,
Here, where our hope, our interest was the same,
Will fair occasion interdict the wrong?
Will distance make expiring friendship strong?
Then pardon, Philip, if I bid thee stay,
Again to pledge the vows of Vezelay,^b
Those vows, that even from a rival’s hand
Demand the care of my unguarded land.”
 “And fear’st thou, Richard, I would forfeit troth?
Then fear no longer: I renew my oath;
So thou before these Princes yield again
A vassal’s fealty for thy Norman reign.”
 But Richard, reading through the thin disguise
The wish to sink him in his comrade’s eyes,
Paus’d not an instant; kneeling on the sand,
His sword he tenders to his Suzerain’s hand.”⁹⁶
 “For ducal Normandy, and Acquitaine,
Touraine and Poitou, half thine ample reign,
I render homage here; but England’s throne,
Erin and Gwyneth, by my father won,
And Cyprus’ conquer’d vales are mine, and mine alone.”
 The chiefs in wonder heard the King display
The various regions that confest his sway,
When Conrad rose, and with unbending look,
Disdaining art, in open scorn he spoke:
 “Warriors farewell! I pray not for your weal,
I feign no friendship that I do not feel;
Nor courage fails me, nor my scrip is low,
Nor ape I sickness, ’tis my will to go.—
For thee, О chief! I spread no artful gloze,
No love has bound us, and we may be foes,
Since thou permitt’st yon phantom king to wear
My lawful title, and my standard bear.
Nor think by words my purpose to restrain,
I lack not gold, and flattery I disdain;
Oh! may you mourn me, as th’ Achaian host
In blood and fire once mourn’d Pelides lost.”
 They spoke and parted;—long with pain supprest,
Indignant virtue blazed in Richard’s breast.
“Hence, hence, ye recreants! ye that vow’d to bleed
For Sion’s love, yet leave her towers unfreed!
Hence, for if interest lures, or fear appals,
Ye are not worthy to behold her walls!^c
The God of Truth a livelier faith demands,
And scorns the labour of reluctant hands.”

Now with redoubled zeal he bends bis care
The walls to strengthen, and the towers repair;
The ransom’d captives to their homes restor’d,
While those deserted by their cruel lord
Paid the dire forfeit of his broken word.^d
Then to the Templars, bravest of the brave,
The conquer’d town, important trust! he gave;
And bids his knights (nor were they loth) prepare
For the long march, the toils and wounds of war,
To quit her glittering domes, her citron shades,
And the soft converse of her dark-eyed maids.
 But first from Acre to the Tyrian court
The Austrian Duke, and proud Beauvais resort;
Beauvais, who ere his limbs the hauberk wore,
The pastoral staff and golden mitre bore.
Them, charged with courteous speech, the Monarch sent,
So might, perchance, the angry chief repent,
And Philip, still in friendly Tyre confined
By adverse ocean, or his wavering mind.^e
 “He who restrain’d the west’ring sun,” he said,
“And through the parted waves his chosen led,
Again may open yon ætherial realm,
With stones or fire an impious race to whelm;
Yet wills not that presumptuous man despise
The licens’d means his narrow skill supplies,”
Meanwhile the pilgrim host their course began;^f
First rode D’Avesnes, and either Lusignan,
The Templars, (all that Acre’s safety spared),
And brave Toulouse, for every chance prepared.
Next with the centre royal England came;
There round their King the glancing pennons flame;
There from its towery height the standard flow’d,
And princely dames on gentle palfreys rode.
Otho, behind, th’ Ausonian force commands,
The Gallic chivalry, and Austrian bands;
With him, in robes of glittering scarlet, moved
The Champions of the Tomb, in combat proved.
Arm’d with their bows the yeomanry attend,
And, sheathed in stubborn mail, the flanks defend;^g
While proudly riding o’er the purple tide,
The copious fleet each rising want supplied.^h
The air was calm, and every hill around
Sent joyful echoes to the trumpet’s sound;
The morn was bright, and every golden ray
Wanton’d ’mid tossing plumes and banners gay;
The winding Belus past, and Menmon’s tomb,
And Kishon’s stream, and Carmel’s brow of bloom,
And Shafamora, that sequester’d lies
Beneath green ridges that successive rise
To princely Lebanon, whose peaks of snow
Shine o’er her dusky wilderness below;
’Mid many a fragrant herb they wander on
Through the delightful plains of Zabulon.
’Twas sultry noon,—’twas August,—yet the breeze
From the tall hills, the near though hidden seas,
Blew fresh and cool, while through the livelong day
A thousand beauties cheat the weary way;
Around profuse the purple thistle grew,⁹⁷
That clothes whole regions in its gorgeous hue;
While Nature’s hand, eternal wonder! weaves
A holy legend in its dappled leaves:
Like that bright flower which still (as bards have sung)
Laments the hero from whose blood it sprung;—
That, the sad record of a heathen’s shame—
But this, of heavenly love and mercy’s healing stream.⁹⁸
The yellow cassia, with its rich perfume,
The cistus, lavish of its shortlived bloom,
Type of man’s hopes, all lovely at their birth,
But falling with the slightest touch to earth;
A race as fair the next blythe morning weaves,
And woos th’ expecting gatherer, and deceives.
There too that tree, whose rosy blossoms flame,
As blushing to record a traitor’s name;
The name of him to self-destruction ledⁱ
In vain repentance for his Lord betrayed.
There loaded palms and ripening vines between
The tall opuntia rears its prickly screen,
And round each ample leaf its flowers unfold
Their rich festoons of crimson and of gold;^k
And there that cane, whence sweeter juice distils
Than bees collect on Hybla’s thymy hills.
Ill fated plant! for man’s delight design’d,
But made by man the scourge of half his kind.
How blest had ne’er a Norman ruler’s hand,
Pour’d the new nectar on Sicilia’s strand!
Thrice blest, had ne’er Iberian sails unfurl’d,
With this dire gift to curse th’ Atlantic world.^l
 All lovely yet appear’d that chosen land,^m
Despite of war and Islam’s iron hand.
With awe they tread where e’en th’ unconscious sod
Was dear to memory, sacred to their God.
Yet oh! how much more fragrant and more fair,
When his celestial presence wander’d there!
When earth, delighted, round his infant head
Bade virgin flowers delicious odours shed;
When serpents died, and every herb of ill,
And native harvests redden’d every hill;
The thorny brakes with ruddy grapes were fill’d,
And the rough oaks a honied dew distill’d.⁹⁹
 At Cana now the pilgrims pause, where first
From the gross veil the present Godhead burst;
Where, while through every heart amazement rush’d,
 “The conscious water saw its God and blush’d.”
Next at Saphura, reverend in decay,
To Anna’s shrine their duteous homage pay.ⁿ
Till one fair eve, while lavish dews descend,
And the clear stars attemper’d radiance lend,
Where the tall plane-trees join’d the acacia’s shade,
And through the turf a crystal fountain play’d,
King >Richard pitch’d his camp, and all around
Ten thousand tents conceal’d the dusty ground.
In haste the troops regale; with toil opprest
They laid the helmet by, and sunk to rest.
But, lured by silver Cynthia’s rising beam,
Round the green margin of the gurgling stream,
The knights and damsels court the evening breeze;
Of their rich burthen rob the bending trees,
On saffron turfs the rural banquet spread,
Or the cool tamarind’s grateful acid shed
In the clear nectar from the fountain head.^o
While Richard with his bride discours’d apart,
Each sought the lady dearest to his heart.
Flung on a mossy bank, young Raymond seems
To count the murmurs of the lucid streams,
But love was conscious of a sweeter spell,
Where on the waves Matilda’s image fell;
Evanthe sought behind a leafy screen
A shadowy spot, where she might weep unseen;
Near the pale heliotrope, whose flower with pain
Turns to the sun, and loves, like her, in vain^p
Nor heeds that Lusignan’s enchanted soul
Mark’d each bright tear that o’er her beauty stole.
In sooth each knight some soft attraction found,
Yet hid in fair excuse the chain that bound:
One loved the opening of a laurel glade,
One the broad sycamore’s majestic shade;
But each, the spot where sate his favourite maid.
Gay Hermesind, amid the moonbeam’s glare,
Drew all the youthful and the joyous there;
Soft flattery, breathing from the careless heart,
Or sighing slaves that dare not own their smart,
Bids on her blushing cheek new graces rise,
And calls fresh lustre from her laughing eyes.
With playful wit she points her conscious charms,
Fair, and capricious as those airy forms,
That where the moon shines clear, and brighter springs
Th’ autumnal verdure, weave their mushroom rings,
And quit the lily’s spacious bell, to tread
Their midnight mazes on th’ enamell’d mead.
 Apart from all she mark’d the Knight Unknown,
Propp’d on his ample shield, his vizor down,
And as she spoke, with arch coquettish grace
Flung back the roseate gauze that veil’d her face.
 “Why does the Knight of Solitude disdain
To mingle with Diana’s vestal train?
Now by thy grassy plume and emerald shield,
By those coy lips in scornful silence seal’d,
Approach our ring; ’tis not the tell-tale noon,
And vestal’s veils are lifted to the moon.”
 “Nay, lady! point not thus, nor thus intreat—
I may not fill that envied, dangerous seat;
For oft, ’tis said, ’mid honour’s deathless leaves,
If subtle love his fragrant roses weaves,
With hue less bright the glossy laurels shine,
Fade at his touch, and like the flowers decline.
While Salem’s throne the bold Amalric claim’d,
While Baldwin ruled, this shadowy grove was famed;
At earliest summer, round this sacred spring,
His nobles wont to join Judea’s King;¹⁰⁰
They met, on fire for glory, prompt to ride
’Gainst Sanguin’s force, or tame Noureddin’s pride.
What fitter spot can hear the vows of one,
Whose heart now beats at honour’s voice alone.
See, as I dipp’d my falchion in the stream,
The moonlight touch’d it with propitious beam;
I will not fear that e’en thy looks have shed
A softer power to enervate the blade;
Yet not too long I trust that witching eye,
I know my danger, and have strength to fly.”
 Piqued at his coldness, vowing that his heart
Should yet be hers if she had charms or art,
She ponder’d on his words, and vainly tried
To pierce the secret sense they seem’d to hide.
(The voice, through the barr’d vizor heard alone,
Nor yet familiar seem’d, nor quite unknown.)
With seeming triumph in her looks, the while
She blest Ricardo with her sweetest smile.
“Lo! he hath spoken—some few trials past
Shall find this Orson humanized at last.”
Then glancing round: “How sweet these moonlight shades,
How blest the lot of Syria’s happy maids!
No toils are theirs, no care but to enjoy
All art can give, beneath so pure a sky;
Where nature, prodigal of bounty, yields
All bards have fabled of Elysian fields.”—
 “Ah!” Pardo cried, “can Syria’s daughters be
The source of envy to a maid like thee!
Will Hermesind confess her eyes require
The jetty cohol to enhance their fire?
Or would she brook to waste a morning’s care,
The jasmine twining in her sable hair,
While stiff with gems her radiant vesture shone,
To please one cold or jealous eye alone?
No! for she emulates that orb divine
Whose sultry beams on all creation shine,
And brighter arms her eyes’ destructive ray,
As more sad victims droop beneath their sway.”
 “Nay! scoffing is not safe! some luckless hour
E’en thy cold breast may melt in beauty’s pow’r.”—
Her words aroused a serpent at his heart,
Yet his gay brow refused to own the smart.
“Aye, nymph! but never will I bend to one
Who loves to break all hearts, but pities none;
That like the fen-fire shines but to beguile,
Death in her frown, and treachery in her smile;
Though thou hast brighter lips, and cheeks, and eyes,
Than grace the bowers of Moslem Paradise,
If such the heaven thou seek’st to gain, beware;
Mahommed paints his houris kind as fair.”—
 But Albert, silent on a bank reclined,
In fancy’s glass compares each damsel’s mind.
Some flowers there are so delicately bright
Their leaves expand but to meridian light,
And drink, where most Hyperion’s fervours stream,
With eagle gaze the fullness of his beam;
And such was Hermersind, whose beauty shone
In the broad sunshine of a court alone,
Where, while around imperial splendour plays,
Her eye might bask in, and reflect the blaze.
While pale Evanthe, gentle, anxious maid,
A pensive violet in its leafy shade,
Though from that sun her light of life she drew,
Dares not on him to lift her timid view;
Yet far unlike the cloister’s pallid maids,
Or flowers that open as the daylight fades,
With charms half lost amid the doubtful light,
And incense wasted on th’ unconscious night:
Hers was no useless bloom, no lavish’d balm,
She sought the lowly dell, the shadowy calm;
Yet smiling in the sun, serene in showers,
That crush’d or blasted, gayer, prouder flowers,
In weal or woe her sweetness would impart,
To please the joyous, cheer the drooping heart.
“But,” thought he, as his mind the theme pursues,
And from the scene imbibes its eastern hues,
“What flower is she that in her lonely dell
Droops mournful now, my own sweet Rosabelle?
Ah! when, loved blossom, shalt thou cease to mourn?
When shall thy wandering nightingale return?”
 Now gentle sleep each sparkling eye deprest
And rich pavilions tempt to balmy rest:
For Europe’s scanty tents were laid aside,
And Western warriors loved Arabian pride,
To see rich carpets on the turf unroll’d,
And every damask curtain loop’d with gold;
While flowery wreaths their midnight scents exhale,
And perfumed waters cool the sultry gale.
They loved whate’er of gorgeous and of gay
Might shed a grace o’er battle’s stern array.
 Yet ere the East proclaimed the rising sun,
The tents were lifted and the march begun.
Beneath their feet profuse that lily springs
Whose golden bloom outvies the robe of kings,^q
And the pale star, by pious pilgrims named
From that whose beams a Saviour’s birth proclaim’d.^r
But when at noon the heavy casque opprest,
In Nazareth’s consecrated shades they rest;
Their golden beads with pious reverence tell,
And slake their ardour at the Virgin’s well.
Still with the dawn Arabian maidens bring
Their thirsty vases to the sacred spring,
But all unconscious of its ancient fame,
They breathe no humble prayer to Mary’s name;
No shrine records where once a Saviour trod,
And gladden’d earth confest the infant God.
 Now through Esdrælon’s smiling vale they crost,
Where Cesarea awes the rocky coast.
They halt—but none their conquering course oppose,
And at their call the friendly gates unclose.
An ample guard the Monarch leaves behind;
Then as through Arsouf’s rocky vale they wind
He counsels caution. Melting in the sky,
No more the vast horizon shuns the eye;
Not this fair Zabulon’s delightful plain,
Here ambush’d fraud might lurk, nor lurk in vain,^s
Where to the south, the angry seas enclose,
And to their left the heights of Napolose;
While in the narrow space that wound between
Frowns many a broken rock and deep ravine.
Here torrents cut the path, here rampant grass,
And towering reeds betray the near morass.
Nor false the leader’s fears—from every height
Soon flew the deadly shafts in frequent flight;
From mighty blocks of weather-tinctured stone,
That seem’d in wrath by warring Titans thrown
On the crush’d forest, start the wary foes,
From each green tuft, each wall, each hollow, rose;
Each little hamlet seems a fortress now,
No spot is safe, no step without a blow.
Where each rude fragment is a post to gain,
Where not one stream is passed till choked with slain.
Strange to the ground, with practised foes they meet,
Prompt in advance and prompter in retreat;
Who see the Christians with their darts perplext,
Then quit this lair and wait them from the next;
While still the broken ground forbids to close,
Nor day brings safety, nor the night repose.
In vain is force before a viewless foe,
Or prudence, levelled by a random blow;
No space is theirs to charge or to career,
Skill, valour, strength, alike are frustrate here.

At length a hoary wood the heights o’erspread;
With caution due the harass’d host survey’d,
And hope for safety in its friendly shade;
Yet deeply marvel that the Soldan’s care,
Of late so wakeful, plants no ambush there!
The hasty trench is dug, the frequent stroke
Fells for the solid fence the knotty oak,
While the lopp’d branches, heap’d in many a pyre,
Prepare to guard the forest camp with fire.
One half the host their anxious vigils keep,
Stretched on their arms, the rest solicit sleep.
But sооп their minds disastrous thoughts invade,
With withering hue they scan the wond’rous shade;
What though no mighty stems, luxuriant, wove
Their boughs umbrageous, patriarchs of the grove,
The trunks were white with age, with moss o’ergrown,
Deform’d, and struggling with th’ incumbent stone.
Not like those woods where Nature’s hand profuse
A thousand forms displays, a thousand hues,
Where all the children of the hill combine;
Nor like those stately sheets of towering pine
Whose graceful pyramids on Jura rise,
And blend her misty summits with the skies:—
One rounded dwarfish form, one sullen leaf,
Clothes the wide forest in perennial grief;
One leaf that, when the naked Winter mourns,
Fades not, nor brightens when the Spring returns.^t
In vain their foes have fled the fatal wood,
No rest they found, by deadlier ills pursued.
Fiends, that to grieve the noble Tancred there,
Could erst the form of armed Clorinda bear,
Or wore Armida’s smiles, but wore in vain,
Send the loud shriek, and clank the heavy chain.
Cold poisonous serpents hiss along the ground,
The vulture screams, the lion roars around,
And ever where the thickest branches play’d
His dreadful eyes are twinkling in the shade.
With naked swords the affrighted warriors hear,
Their snorting steeds are bathed in dews of fear;
In vain industrious hands provoke the fire,
The rebel flames in dust and blood expire.
With sad funereal sound the moaning breeze
Swells to a storm, and bends the stubborn trees;
The thunder roars, the forked flash appals,
And sanguine rain, that blisters where it falls;
To each scared wretch his ghastly comrade seems
Like those pale forms that haunt distemper’d dreams.
Loud scream’d the owl, the raven croaking flew,
E’en darkness wore a strange unnatural hue,
And her black void is fill’d with shapes of woe;
Terrific sights, that day shall never know.
Now valour falters,—they that proudly bore
The brunt of battle, are themselves no more;
Fearless alone, Plantagenet imparts
His own brave spirit to their sinking hearts;
Cheers, strengthens all—till now at random thrown
On a vast slab of dark and rugged stone,
Beyond that joyless scene his fancy soars,
Reviews the past, the future page explores;
When lo! a blaze of fiercer lightning came,
The wood is radiant with a lambent flame;
Shrill shrieks succeed,—Evanthe pale, aghast,
Bursts through the adverse boughs and rushes past;
Foaming with rage, a ravenous beast pursued,
And dreadful roarings echo through the wood;
From its broad shoulders streamed its shaggy hair,
And its red eyes with rage portentous glare.
No time to seek the spear or draw the blade,
Dauntless he rushed to screen the affrighted maid;
O’er his stout arm his velvet mantle wound,
And, undismayed, receives the dreadful bound;
Huge claws and gnashing teeth in vain assail,
Entangled, blunted by his woven mail;
Till, as more wide the furious jaws expand,
Down the fell throat he thrusts his mighty hand.
Tears with resistless force its heart away,
And far before him casts the lifeless prey.^u
Evanthe next he seeks,—with ’wildered look
Her slender arms entwined a rugged oak;
But, with the weight of gratitude opprest,
She comes, she falls on her deliverer’s breast.
Loose are her tresses, bare her rounded arms,
Their faded hue gives interest to her charms,
Till, as new light inspires her opening eyes,
On her pale features burning blushes rise,
And, starting from his hold, she strives to hide
Her glowing face, and sinks at Richard’s side.
 “Oh! why again so generous? wherefore save
A wretch, whose only hope is now the grave?
Why, why for me so dear a life expose?
Too well, alas! this wretched bosom knows,
Too deeply feels the gratitude it owes.”
 Astonished at her words, perplexed, amazed,
Reproving, pitying half, the Monarch gazed,
While o’er his soul, but whence he knew not, came
The fascination of that mystic dream,
Which, when he slumber’d in th’ expiring storm,
In added grace foreshewed the stranger form.
But soon his better thoughts the spell resist,
He answer’d calm, as though his ear had miss’d
The sense of words by strong emotion wrung,
Unknown, at least unbidden from her tongue.
 “Nay, rate not thus,” he spoke, “illustrious maid!
So slight a service,—in itself repaid.
Thou tremblest yet!—let Berengaria’s care
Thy terrors soothe, thy harass’d frame repair.
Rise, Princess, nor disdain the aid I lend,
My arm shall guide thee to thy gentle friend.
 “To her, beloved of Richard, shall I go,
And bid her, as she caused, enjoy my woe?
No, first, inhuman! shed ray vital blood,
Or give me to the monsters of the wood.
Rent from a crown, myself, my sire a slave,
I bore resign’d,—I loved thee, and forgave;
I loved, I saw thee wed another bride,
And lived, alas! to wish I then had died.
Now self-betray’d—ah! whither shall I fly?
How meet thine own, or Berengaria’s eye!
Oh! hide me in some cave, where none that knew
Her happier days, Evanthe’s grief can view;
Some spot (if such there be) where never fame
With joyful tongue shall whisper Richard’s name;
There shall cold vigils waste my youthful prime,
And tears efface th’ involuntary crime:
Or rather, since those frowning looks disclose
Far less than pity for thy victim’s woes,
Now let me quit this load of life, and find,
Chief of the iron-heart, this steel more kind.”
 “Hear not, ye Heavens!” cried Richard, as he sprung,
And from her hand the lifted dagger flung.
“Alas! unhappy maid! this awful night
Bereaves thy wandering mind of reason’s light!
Is this Evanthe? she so meekly given
In calm devotion to her sire and Heaven?
Whose bosom seem’d so pure, that none might dare
To deem one thought forbidden harbour’d there!
Now in her words can guilty passion speak,
Glow in her eye, and redden on her cheek?
Where is the downcast look, the pensive air,
The Cross Evanthe ever wont to wear?
Hold fast, lost Princess! hold that sacred sign,
It cures all sorrows, let it solace thine,”
 “Ha! am I mock’d!” the beauteous semblance cries,
While each fair feature swells to giant size,
While blood-red arms the phantom limbs invest,
And the red helm displays a sanguine crest:
“Yet tremble, thou hast spurn’d Evanthe’s charms,
But what shall save thee from infernal arms?”
 “What but that higher Power that Christians trust,
A Saviour’s blood, a God for ever just.”
He hurls the fiend to earth; the bands unlace,
The falling helm betrays a female face,
Though not Evanthe’s —but the blood forsook
The Monarch’s cheek, and every fibre shook.—
He knew those charms in opening youth that stole
With such seducing witchery on his soul;
He dared for them with hostile France conspire,
For them in rebel arms assail’d his sire;
On holy Pandulph rais’d his impious spear,
Till Heaven in thunder check’d his mad career.^x
From hence what length of wars, what weight of woes,
What long remorse,—but oh! what glory rose!
For hence in penance to th’ Elect of Heaven,
With humble heart he sued to be forgiven,
And robed in sackcloth to their scourges bow’d.¹⁰¹
Hence, to atone the guilty deed, he vow’d
His banner on the Sacred Plains should shine,
His arm affront the conquering Saladine.
Hence, where Calabria’s mountain-hermit dwelt,
On each rude rock in pilgrim garb he knelt,
And wondering heard, what heaven-descended sights
On Judah’s hills had blest his wakeful nights,
How from th’ Apocalypse his gifted view
The past expounded and the future knew;
Where prescient Heaven, in mystic phrases seal’d
Its pardon of the Monarch’s crime reveal’d;
And bade, when Syria saw his flag unfurl’d,
His name outshine the conquerors of the world.^y
Hence, when the vital spark should quit his breast,
Had Richard will’d, that though his heart might rest
In that dear city which he loved the best,
(Delighted when her Minster’s fretted height,
Grew like a child beneath the parent’s sight,)
His corse, where Everard’s holy springs distil,
Placed at his father’s feet, should ask forgiveness still.^z
 Such painful thoughts officious memory rais’d,
As bending o’er the prostrate form, he gazed,
On charms unseen since he believed them pure,
And vow’d his love should with his life endure:
While feelings that had slept for years, again
Burst in full force upon his aching brain,
“Demon!” he cried, “how well thou know’st the art,
To torture though thou can’st not shake my heart.
’Tis but a semblance, yet Alasia’s form
Arrests my vengeance and unnerves my arm.
Hence, in His name this blessed sign who bore,
Delude my sense, and vex these groves no more.”
 “Fond man! thou robb’st me of an instant’s power,
I scent th’ advancing dawn, and know my hour.
But mark this crest, this armour; mark them yet—
The face methink’st thou can’st not well forget;
Thy heart in vain the vision may despise,
The dread reality shall blast thine eyes.”
 As from her narrow cell Aurelia springs,
And spreads to summer suns her ample wings,
Thus from the bursting mail Moozallil rose,
The trembling wood its mighty master knows.
So vast his stature, that the proudest oaks
Reached not one ringlet of his raven locks.
On his dark brow a thousand furies sate,
Revenge, and pride, and ever-during hate;
He shuns th’ approaching sun, but leaves the sod
All black and blasted, where his steps had trod.
 What sacred spell is in the morning light,
That with the darkness melts the fears of night?
Fatigue and pain, and sounds and sights accurst
Are vanish’d, like the dreadful dreams they nurst;
Up springs each warrior, springs with joyous bound,
And calls with cheerful voice his comrades round;
At his own fears amazed, and the control
Of night and darkness on his alter’d soul.
Yet, though with that pervading radiance came
Health to the mind, and vigour to the frame,
Fresh care succeeds; those stores that prudence pil’d,
Are drench’d by rain, by birds obscene defiled.
In vain they seek, if haply there may twine
The juicy melon, or th’ uncultur’d vine;
For every fruit in those dark brakes that grew,
Scared by its nauseous taste and livid hue.
Rank lurid herbs that wizard hands distil,
With potent juice to aid their powers of ill;
Some whose foul scents their innate guilt declare,
Or thorny fruits bid careless hands beware;
And some more dangerous far, of fragrant breath,
Whose taste is poison, or whose touch is death.
 Beneath those shades (whose wondering echoes rung
With discord harsh) were holy matins sung,
When Richard bade to hasten on their way,
Nor lose one hour of vigour in delay.
“Ere night our swords shall all we need obtain.
Or force a passage to the friendly main.”
Now Berengaria came, and on her arm
Evanthe, bright in every youthful charm.
Well had Moozallil mock’d her eye of blue,
Her lips, her cheeks, like roses wash’d in dew;
But could not mock that purity of soul,
Which breathed a holier beauty through the whole.
In every act, each modest glance exprest,
In every folding of her spotless vest.
Oh! if those powers accurst, that only live
In prompting man to ill, could ever give
Those charms one moment’s sway in Richard’s heart,
’Twas when in thought he scorn’d their baffled art.
The march began, but wearisome and slow,—
Above the woods impede, the bogs below:
Blythe were the warriors, when the orb of day,
Thro’ boughs less dense could send a brighter ray;
And when the tainted gale betray’d no more,
The damp unwholesome marsh it linger’d o’er.
But short their joy, the lessening umbrage shews
On Arsouf’s heights arrayed the wary foes
Thick as the blades of grass in vernal hour,
Or locusts that those tender blades devour;
Gay as the fields when bright with summer dews,
Or beds of tulips, deck’d in rainbow hues.
(What time to cheat the Haram’s weary hours,
Voluptuous lamps illume the gaudy flowers.)^aa
“Ah!” thought the King, “how oft my eager sight
Has sought this foe, and long’d to close in fight!
But now with bands dishearten’d, spent, opprest—
Yet spare these murmurs, Heaven decrees the best.
Let our stout yeomen close in firmest rank
To form our van, and guard each lengthen’d flank,
While all the knights the white-veil’d car surround,
Nor trust their steeds amid the broken ground.
Albert, Ricardo, long beloved and tried,
To you with fifty warriors we confide,
In yonder wood, our sister and our bride.—
‘St, George for England!’ be the signal given,
Till then restrain your rage, and trust in heaven.”
 Oh, courage! though thy bold, unshrinking hand
From flaming pyres could pluck the lighted brand,
An army’s chief implores a higher power
To nerve his mind in battle’s awful hour.
The cool quick sight that marks each peril nigh,
Nor madly braves, nor basely turns to fly;
The soul that now its valour can repress,
Now seize the point when daring gives success.
All these were his, who with one piercing glance
Each present evil saw, each future chance;
How well their post the adverse army chose,
Where on one side th’ Enchanted Forest rose,
On one fierce Arsouf’s foaming torrent flows,
While pent in narrow broken ground, unknown,
Or known to fear, what perils wait his own;
Who marks each danger, marks it but to foil,
And, nobly conscious, glories in’his toil.
 And these are his whom Europe late beheld,
When vaunting Gaul, by British might compell’d,
Left her lost eagles on the fatal field!
Nor scorn, illustrious Chief! my humble praise—
Not yet the hour is come when bards shall raise
Thine far above an elder Arthur’s fame;
When age shall teach, and infants lisp thy name.
I speak not of a bloody despot, hurl’d
From ill-got empire—or a rescued world—
But (dreadful only in his distant roar)
That present War deform’d not Albion’s shore;
That still our altars and our throne endure,
Our fields are fruitful and our hearths secure;
That every peaceful home unaltered shews
Those nameless comforts England only knows.
All these, our grateful tears confess it true,
All these to thee, to thee and Heaven are due!

Book VIII

The Battle of Arsouf

On Arsouf’s hill the Moslem myriads shone,
Their yellow standards glittering in the sun.
’Mid shouts of “Allah!” and the martial call
Of shrill Nacaire, and Zel, and Atabal,¹⁰²
The Soldan views his ranks,—a barded steed
On either side attendant Mamlukes lead;
There plumes and banners sink and rise again
Like foam on billows of the chafing main;
While, motionless as rocks that guard its flow,
And silent as th’ untrodden mountain’s brow,
The Christian army frowns in shade below.
The sable hauberks clothe the fields in night,
Save when some blazon’d pennon beams to sight,
Or glares the thirsty steel’s portentous light.
The wolves, that hail the thunder-cloud of war,
Look from their dens; the vultures speed from far.  Now showers of javelins hurtle through the sky,
Like wintry snows the plumy arrows fly;^a
The Moslems bleed; their happier foes endure
The baffled storm, in stronger mail secure,
Their hearts with valour arm’d, their limbs with steel,
Unmoved as sculptured forms that cannot feel,
They stand,—till Richard mark’d the Moslems pour
From their exhausted sheaves a scantier shower;
The signal sounds,—at once the lances beam,
The banners wave, and, like a mountain stream,
Led by D’Avesnes, burst forth his eager knights,
Drive back the foe, and win the nearer heights.
But Mosul’s lord, and Mosul’s braver heir,
Arbelia’s pride, and Sandjar’s Prince were there,
Omar and Afdhal, like the morning star,
The Soldan’s eldest hope, and new to war.
They meet the chief, who, all to fury given,
Shouts loud his war-cry, “’Tis the will of Heaven!”¹⁰³
Twice he rush’d on, and twice repulsed, again
Spurs his stout charger o’er the heaps of slain.
But Adel from a distant height survey’d
His brother’s wavering bands, and hastes to aid.
The arrows bristled in each jewell’d fold
Of the rich turban round his helmet roll’d,
White waved his triple plume, but white no more,
Soon was its silver down bedew’d with gore,
And each bright fringe his chesnut courser wore,
Where’er he came gay shields in shivers flew,
Crests, arms, and mangled limbs the plain bestrew,
And steeds ran masterless,—deep groans were mixt
With clash of arms, and shouts that rose betwixt.
Pierced by his spear was sage Bertulpho slain,
Albrando next, both vassals of Louvain;
And Antwerp’s lord; till, tired of meaner foes,
Furious he seeks with great D’Avesnes to close.
The Flemish lance on Adel’s buckler broke,
But Adel’s scymitar, with mightier stroke
Lopp’d one stout leg; nor present death can tame
The martyr’s soul, such death as leads to fame;
His frighted steed pranced wildly o’er the plain,
Yet still he grasp’d the unrelaxing rein,
Collecting all his strength, to right to left
His sword descends, and helm and corslet cleft;
Though all the ground was redden’d as he past,
Though now each stroke was feebler than the last,
He yields not yet, till Adel comes again,
And hand and sword fall sever’d to the plain.
He sinks in blood, but with his dying breath
He calls on Richard to avenge his death.
 “I come, brave Count!” th’ impetuous Monarch cried,
And plunged his golden spurs in Favel’s side:
Nor waits his troops;—determined squadrons nigh
Oppose his arm, they feel it and they fly,
Adel he seeks, but Adel distant far,
On Otho’s bands now waged destructive war:
His Egypt bleeds the while; to one proud heart
Drove Richard’s spear, then drawing back the dart,
He through his comrade thrust with mightier force,
And pinn’d him dying to his dying horse, Whose spine received the point; the lance he leaves,
And to the brain his sword Benamar cleaves.
Now Reduan came:—where Thebes of old to war
Pour’d through an hundred gates the rattling car
His fathers dwelt; he bears no waving crest,
Nor brass nor steel his mighty limbs invest.
Once (when deserted by the ebbing Nile)
He found and slew the slumbering crocodile;
Sheathed in its spoils thenceforth he scorns the shield,
And either practised hand the sword can wield.
But Caliburn, ’gainst which no fence avails,
Shivers like glass the adamantine scales;
He falls, he stains the verdant skin with red,
His comrade flies, but shooting as he fled,
To Richard’s ear th’ unerring arrow sped.
Slight was the wound, such wound as but inspires
The hero’s soul, and rouses all his fires.
He snatch’d an archer’s bow,—the Egyptian steed
In vain was swift, more swift the winged reed;
Beneath his shoulder was the barb addrest,
The barb empurpled issued at his breast.
Now numbers perish’d, nor the muse may tell
Their names, or how by various deaths they fell,
Or bravely, or by wounds dishonest gored,
Yet few were found to wait th’ Armoric sword.
Omar alone, to none whose valour yields,
Omar, the hero of an hundred fields,
Waves high the yellow badge of Ayoub’s blood,
While his round shield in proud defiance shew’d
A Moslem trampling on the Holy Rood.
The King beheld; with fiercer fury stung,
He seized the axe that by his saddle hung;
The breaking helm was heard, the crashing bone,
And Omar from his seat a shapeless mass was thrown.
 Nought now restrains Plantagenet,—his blows
In hideous ruin crush the shrinking foes;
While like some winged courser Favel flew,
To Arsouf’s stream he drives the trembling crew;
Alike they fall beneath his axe, or brave
The foaming tide, and perish in the wave.
Now to the cliffs they rush, nor heed below
The rocks, the seas, so much they fear their foe.
Again in blood they dye that guilty shore,
Of old so deeply stain’d with virgin gore,
Till he, the saint that Albion’s sons implore,
Freed from the dragon’s jaws the royal maid,
And at her feet the slaughtered monster laid.¹⁰⁴
 Unconquer’d Richard basks in victory’s smile;
Defeat frowns darkly on his rear the while.
Before the flower of Asian warriors ride
The brother Sultans, more by love allied.
But though the practised eye on either face
Might read the kindred lines of Ayoub’s race,
Well might it marvel at the tie which binds
In wondrous union such discordant minds.
One pale and spare, in sable robes arrayed,
No jewels deck’d, save on his Syrian blade;
No gaudy hues, save where the plumes that grace
His casque, attest his empire and his race;
But Adel, named the Thunderbolt of Fight,
In stature lofty, as supreme in might,
With diamonds flamed, and gloried to behold
His meanest followers clad in gems and gold.
Generous to friends, he could forgive his foes,
And yet his slaves would shun the path he chose;
With all an Arab’s scorn of blood he slew,
And mercy was a fault he never knew.
While learned Imaums shared with Saladine
An hermit’s meal, he quaff’d forbidden wine;
A nation’s wealth his new seraglios hide,
While Saladine, with more of patriot pride,
Bade thousands toil Kahira’s walls to frame,^b
Or delve the well ennobled in his name.
Fate brought ambition, his reluctant guest,
Native she sprung in Adel’s haughty breast;
Alas! when Azrael shall their love divide,
Young Afdhal’s realms may rue his uncle’s pride.
 Now first on earth was Norman Arnulph laid,¹⁰⁵
A noble victim, worthy Adel’s blade;
The Soldan’s spear the Danish Silric found,
Pierced through the eye, the brain received the wound.
The brave Anglure, incensed, to vengeance flew.
But check’d the blow, the yellow crest he knew.
Nor less the Soldan mark’d the noble knight,
Of old his prisoner in Tabaria’s fight,
And for his prowess tax’d at ransom high,
Ill might his scanty lands the mulct supply.
Him, at his earnest prayer, the Soldan freed,
Amid his friends to seek the glittering meed;
One year to Gaul’s proud lords he sued in vain,
Nor longer could his bride the knight detain.
For honour call’d him to resume his chain.
Such virtue touch’d the Soldan’s generous breast,
With gifts he graced him, and with freedom blest;
Now pleas’d that grateful thoughts his falchion staid
He dropp’d his own; “no! thou hast shared my bread,
Seek other foes, if thou must fall,” he said.
Alas! his doom was near, for Adel’s hand,
Relentless Adel! stretch’d him on the sand;
But in Poitou, the eldest of his line,
For ever bears the name of Saladine.^c
 Earl Ferrars next at Adel aims the blow;
Pleased that its weight announced a worthy foe,
The King accepts the fight, and wheeling round,
E’en as he turns, his side receives a wound;
He rais’d his sabre, but the Earl with care
Eludes the steel, which spent its force in air;
Again the Norman struck, but struck in vain,
The shield’s tough plates the fierce assault sustain;
The Earl’s left shoulder feels th’ avenging stroke,
Through arms, and flesh, and crashing bones it broke;
His powerful hand resign’d the ponderous shield,
His noble blood rain’d crimson on the field.
Yet still he grasp’d the sword—one effort more—
Again his eyes exult in Adel’s gore;
He falls, yet blest that not in vain he dies,
Waits the stern stroke that sends him to the skies.
With grief and fear his shuddering troop was fill’d,
But rage in Percy’s noble bosom thrill’d.
Furious, to meet th’ Egyptian king he rode,
And couch’d his lance; but soon the brittle wood
Snapp’d in its rest, the Moslem aim’d his sword,
Full at the temper’d casque of Whitby’s lord;
He leap’d aside, the steel with erring force
Miss’d the good Knight, but slew his generous horse.
Yet soon on foot recover’d, Alan stands,
And, rashly brave, th’ unequal fight demands;
His blows more swift than autumn’s clattering hail,
On Adel’s buckler shower, and Syrian mail.
The Monarch, maddening that a single knight
So long detain’d him, summons all his might;
Beneath the helm a dreadful stroke he sped,
And from his shoulders parts the gasping head.
 Alas! already had his princely line
Twice dewed with blood the sands of Palestine.
Again shall Percy’s orphans mourn, again
With solemn dirges seek St. Hilda’s fane.^d
 Now, by the Soldan pierc’d, Vigano lies,¹⁰⁶
Cleft to the brain, the noble Stourton dies;
When Suabia’s hapless Duke, who, vainly brave,
With grief and sickness wasting to the grave,
Scorn’d on his couch to yield a sluggard’s breath,
In glorious battle seeks a nobler death.
Attired once more in long neglected arms,
The feeble frame his ardent spirit warms;
As when by him Iconium’s Prince was slain^e
His eyes flash fire, he seems himself again.
His reeking sword is drunk with Moslem blood,
But when against Damascus’ lord he stood,
His transient vigour fail’d; in short career
Borne down, transfixed by that unerring spear.
His Teuton knights to Arsouf’s forest bore
Their lifeless leader, weltering in his gore,
And in the son, again the sire deplore.

Nor sleeps the war, where Sion’s sovereign stands,
The Red Cross champions, and Provençal bands;
There near young Aladin Seiffeddin fights,
Dark Mestoc there with Sandjar’s Prince unites,
And one whose limbs in Christian armour drest,
Bore on the ruddy helm a sanguine crest;
A naked sword the ruby shield display’d,
And “Vengeance” glow’d around the threat’ning blade.
Alas! Alasia, does that martial gleam
Thy royal race, thy gentle sex beseem?
Far hence that sickly softness, skill’d to hide
Its selfishness in sentimental pride;
That not for others but itself afraid,
Weeps, faints, bewailing where it ought to aid.
But woman’s courage needs no plates of steel,
Its gentler office not to wound, but heal;
To bear resign’d, to hide the starting tear,
To speak the hope her bosom cannot share;
O’er pain’s cold brow a heavenly beam to shed,
And watch, unfearing, by contagion’s bed;
These are its triumphs, which though Fame deny
An earthly crown, she writes in gold on high.
 Yet thee I blame not, beauteous Almahide,
Noureddin’s daughter, and Aleppo’s pride:
But not in luxury train’d; that Prince forbore
In Haram bowers to waste the peasant’s store,
Nor gems, nor purple his Sultana wore.
An Arab she, she taught her child to bear
The stubborn bow, and chase the dappled deer,
Where Pharphar cools Damascus’ violet vale,
And breathes from neighbouring hills th’ inspiring gale.^f
But when her sire resign’d the flame of life
And from his ashes rose the bird of strife,
When Judah’s Lord (than him less generous far
Who on a kingless state had scorn’d to war),
Assail’d his sorrowing realm, the royal maid
In martial weeds her lovely limbs array’d,
With dauntless breast opposed his bloody track,
And from Belinas turn’d Amalric back.
Then to the Soldan, who from Egypt flown,
Made Syria’s princely bride by force his own,¹⁰⁷
To him, who in her father’s favour bred
Now spoil’d the royal house he once obeyed,
She knelt, and from his generous pity won
The vow to spare Noureddin’s infant son;
But when (by long and fierce assault subdued)
For Mosul and its rebel Prince she sued,
Unwilling to forego a realm so fair,
So hardly won, he scorn’d the Virgin’s prayer;
Yet after long with vain remorse would chide
Th’ obdurate heart that woman’s tears denied.
Thenceforth amid a peaceful realm she reign’d,
And war she never sought, but well sustain’d,^g
Till roused by Richard’s fame new ardour warms
Her regal soul, again she shines in arras;
Nor Richard’s self might scorn the martial pride,
And powerful spear of noble Almahide.
 While Raymond hastes to check Seiffeddin’s rage,
While Bertrand and Arbelia’s Prince engage,
While Lusignan and fierce Zorayda fight,
While Geoffrey braves Moheddin’s equal might,
Her javelin’s force the wondering Templars know,
Or feel the vigour of her sounding bow;
By valour as by vows forbid to yield,^h
With noble blood they dye the verdant field.
On every side she slays, her smoking steel
Provence and Flanders, Brabant, Syria feel;
Till all the van, in dire confusion tost,
Flies to the hills and mourns its bravest lost.
But Aladin pursues his glorious course
With all the lightning’s swiftness, all its force;
Where frowns the central might of England’s war,
His daring arm assails the sacred car.
Some sunk, the victims of his Syrian steel,
Some crush’d inglorious, by his courser’s heel;
Behind their Prince the youth of Persia came,
Rapid as whirlwinds, terrible as flame;
With shouts they charge—but, resolute to die
Or guard their Standard, England’s chivalry,
By Asia’s brother Kings already prest,
To the new fight their dauntless fronts addrest.
There Multon, Tancarville, and Pembroke stood,
And Osmere, sprung of old Elphegius’ blood;¹⁰⁸
His golden sheaf there gallant Grosvenor rears,
There the white cross of Perceval appears;¹⁰⁹
There Leicester first his father’s banner spread;ⁱ
There shines De Karreo, who so nobly bled,
Adorn’d with recent honours; Dutton’s lord,
Proud of great Odard’s far-descended sword;
And Pelham’s youthful pride—no braver name^k
Decks the long annals of his line of fame;
Not even that Knight to whom on Poitiers’ field
Gaul’s vanquish’d King his captive sword shall yield.
But Osmere soon the Persian javelin slew,
And Pembroke’s steed without a rider flew;
Reft of a limb, his squires afflicted bear
To calmer scenes the proud Fitz-Herbert’s heir.
’Twas then that D’Oyley,— he whom none excell’d
In mortal conflict or the listed field,
Who once unknown his Sovereign’s spear engaged,^l
With Aladin a doubtful combat waged;
Nor ever yet that ardent Prince had found
A knight more skill’d to give, or ward, the wound.
Now here, now there, on either batter’d mail
They strike infuriate, and by turns prevail;
Till fortune, to the Saracen inclined,
Instructs his powerful arm the pass to find,
Where the dark hauberk, forged with little art,
Admits his sabre to the Christian’s heart.
But Perceval, long bound by grateful ties
To D’Oyley’s house, enraged to vengeance flies.^m
In vain,—his better arm the Persian cleaves,
And pale on earth the wounded Norman leaves;
And but his squire was near, on Arsouf’s plain
The son of Ascelin had swell’d the slain.
 And now the conquering Prince his rowels hides
In Safie’s flank,—the affrighted crowd divides;
Alike he spurns the living and the slain,
And dares with impious touch the car prophane.
Bold Harcourt hastes to save; and Stanley’s knight,
Talbot and Compton, dragons of the fight;
While Turneham and heroic Pelham spread
The groaning sand with heaps of Persian dead:
This soon the Prince observ’d,—his horn he wound
(His studded horn that gave a silver sound);
First at his call the youthful Osman rush’d,
O’er friends and foes impetuous Ghazi push’d;
Afdhal, Zorayda, Zenghi, Almahide,
Forego the spoil, and to his succour ride;
But (for what speed can match a father’s fears?)
Seiffeddin first with foaming steed appears.
Now man to man and horse to horse opposed,
In one small space is all the war enclosed.
Here armour rings, and broken weapons fly,
Blood dyes the earth, and dust obscures the sky!
Now Hamo fell, the prey of Almahide;¹¹⁰
Khorassan’s Prince by powerful Leicester died.
By Roland pierced, rose Alp’s expiring yell,
By Afdhal’s hand the conquering Roland fell.
The young Fitzaubert, who on Arsouf’s plain
Nurs’d the fond hope of gilded spurs in vain,
By Almahide to lasting slumber sent,
His faithful squire shall Leicester long lament.
 Loud rings the clash of arms;—the press of war
Nearer and nearer thickens round the car:
Its purpled wheels are choked with mounds of slain,
And its white veils receive a crimson stain.
The Christians yield! the Prince with powerful spear
Strikes from his seat the hardy charioteer;
While Solyman, of all the Mamluke train
Bravest and first, usurps the vacant rein.ⁿ
‘Twas then, while Multon with impetuous force
On Mosul’s hope impell’d his powerful horse,
That Grosvenor (from his hand the falchion thrown)
Springs on the wheels, and drags the Moslem down,
While his strong knee his struggling foe comprest,
His dagger’s point th’ unwilling soul dismist.
Orasmin, long his partner of the war,
Seeks from the field his dying friend to bear;
In vain,—his arms and gilded helm inspire
Fierce Bertrand’s grasping soul with strong desire;
O’er his slain foe his mighty shield he spread,
And by his side he lays Orasmin dead.
Alike in Ayoub’s yellow livery drest
The field Bedreddin and Miralis prest.
On Kaled next the bold De Karreo flies,
And, cleft by Harcourt’s axe, Shirazin dies.
But Bertrand, like some massy tower, defied
Abdallah’s strength and overweening pride;
Three half-armed Franks upon his lance had bled,
“Breathes there a fourth dares meet its force?” he said:
The Viscount, striking ere he deem’d him near,
Lopp’d with his trenchant blade the lifted spear;
Then as his arm his sabre’s hilt explored,
Deep in his side he drove the fatal sword.
But now from Arsouf’s forest moving on,
The knights of France and warriors of St. John,
With shrill-voiced clarions pierce the troubled air,
Fall on the Moslems, and reverse the war;
And, long victorious on the neighbouring height,
To seek fresh foes descends the Emerald Knight.
Graceful as Mars he reins his matchless steed,
A milk white jennet of Iberian breed.
Meantime th’ Egyptian King the fight survey’d—
His arm in dust twice twenty knights had laid,
Whose dauntless fronts the snowy Cross display’d.
Now resting from the field, he sees advance
The fresh attack—he grasp’d his powerful lance,
And sought the Soldan —who from war retired,
As Moslem rites at glowing noon required,
First on his hands the cleansing water pour’d,
Then, bent to earth, the God of Heaven adored.
His beauteous dwarfs around the Monarch stand,
And chaunt harmonious, as their laws command,
That holiest Koran, traced by Omar’s hand;
While all the rush of war, the mingled cry
Of rout or conquest, swept unheeded by.^o
In admiration lost, th’ Egyptian stood,
Nor on his brother’s silence dared intrude
Till Saladine arose. Then, “Lo! he cried,
“Where from yon wood Gaul’s red-cross warriors ride,
And with proud Austria’s azure legions come,
Our ancient foes, the Champions of the Tomb.”
 “Charge, Adel! charge! we give them to the sword,
In Alla’s name,—be Alla’s name adored!”
And calm as when the quiet sod he prest,
The dauntless Soldan fix’d the lance in rest;
To check th’ advancing squadrons, ere they gain
The level ground, and join the English train.
Half lost in herbage, where a torreni crost
The narrow path, he plants his little host;
Soon its blue waves run purple to the main,
And the rose-laurel wears a deeper stain.
First, pierc’d by Adel’s Land, De Coucy fell,
Whose hapless tale Provençal bards shall tell;
For ere his soul its earthly prison broke,
With faltering accents to his squire he spoke:
“To Fayel’s bride convey this bleeding heart,
Whose hapless passion scarce with life shall part;
Perchance, though to its living woes severe,
She then may grace it with a pitying tear;—
Fame, and her love, and Paradise, to gain,
I wear the Cross, nor let me wear in vain.”—
Alas! the squire, while he his route explored,
Met in a wood the lady’s jealous lord;
And, all unconscious, to his ear disclosed
Within the urn what precious heart reposed.
He hears, and credits half the tide: the rest
In frightful hues his jaundiced fancy drest;
His phrenzy deepens, nor believes the dame,
Loved by such knight, could scorn his faithful flame.
With savoury spice the wretched heart he drest,
And saw his bride enjoy the dreadful feast!
Then told the whole;—when she who prized his truth,
Even while her virtue shunn’d the hapless youth,
Would with no meaner food pollute his tomb,
And pining, met the voluntary doom,^p
Yet did not his fond heart forget to beat,
Nor Coucy’s soul desert its earthly seat;
Till Ermengard, neglectful of the fight,
Of all his sins had shrieved the pious knight.
 Meanwhile the battle bleeds. On Adel’s spear
Died noble Clermont, and the brave Sancerre.
The Count of Dreux, beside his own arrays
His brother’s troop, the vassals of Beauvais;
Vaunting he came—but when his eye beheld
The scene of death, by sudden terror quell’d,
He turn’d his steed; and through his squadrons spread
Their leader’s fears, till all in tumult fled.
Not so St. Paul’s brave Earl; beneath him slain,
Three noble steeds are stiffening on the plain,
Fearless he mounts a fourth; his dreadful brand
With hideous ruin sweeps the Mamluke band;
The Knights of Sion, fired with rage, imbue
Their scarlet mantles in a deeper hue.
Here Ermengard for deathless fame contends,
Here storms Fougères, and Mestoc there defends.
 But, like some tiger springing from his lair,
In battle dreadful as devout in prayer,
The Soldan seems—on horse and foot alike,
His blows descend, and kill where’er they strike.
First of the noble fell Tillières, and then
Castillan’s Baron, and the bold Turenne;
Gournay and Ponthieu;^q and a warrior drest
In sable arms, his helm without a crest;
A cedar, once the patriarch of the glade,
Crush’d by the bolts of Heaven, his shield display’d,
“How fall’n, and whence!” the mournful legend said.
Alas, he perish’d! Not a squire unlaced
His casque, or friend the words of peace addrest;
None knew that in that humble guise was quell’d
A chief that once Edessa’s sceptre held,
Whose house should give (from Moslem conquerors won)
A race of sovereigns to Byzantium’s throne.^r
 But when unhorsed the Lord of Newburg fell,
Lamenting thousands raised the piercing yell;
That heart which ne’er to asking want denied,
That hand which Europe’s famish’d host supplied,
When, whelm’d with countless ills, on Acre’s plain
They look’d to Tyre’s relentless Prince in vain,^s
Is cold! But angel harpings hail on high
The “faithful servant” to eternal joy.
Brave as that Lysoi, from whose triumph came
His lineal pride, and Montmorency’s name;
Graceful in youth, the noble Joscelin flies
To proof of arms, and Saladine defies.
One in the flower of youth, when just began
The supple joints to knit and fix in man;
And one in vigorous age, ere slow decay
Unnerved those joints and stole his strength away.
 Meanwhile where Hubert heap’d the field with dead,
“Turn, Sarum! turn!” a voice of thunder said;
“Turn, hateful recreant to thy vows profest!
How ill those stains beseem thy priestly vest.
Has earth or hell an union more abhorr’d?
Peace on thy lips, and carnage on thy sword!”
 He turn’d,—his foe was red with Christian gore,
His shield the Prophet’s moony ensign bore;
Th’ unvizor’d helm Rodolpho’s face betray’d,
A Templar once, but now a renegade.¹¹¹
“Thou, traitor! say whom most his God shall prize,
The man whose sword defends him, or defies?”
The priest return’d; by righteous anger sway’d,
Deep in Rodolpho’s throat he drove the blade;
While the warm life-blood chokes his struggling breath,
His fate he curses, and blasphemes in death.
 But near the Prelate’s side Guiscardo stood,
And spoke aloud, by sudden fear subdued:
“St. George! thou guardian of our English host,
Now lend thy aid, or Christendom is lost.”^t
 Sage Hubert smiled: “Heaven loves not those that fear,
A firmer faith had made thy sight more clear.
О thou, the strength of England’s line, dispense
A brighter beam to his benighted sense.”
 He pray’d, and Guiscard sees a stranger knight,
Steed, arms, and vesture, all of silver light;
But on his casque he bore a dragon crest,
A sanguine cross his diamond shield imprest;
His lance was gold, and as the lightning glides
Through hardest rocks, the Moslem mail divides;
Blood spouts around, yet not one drop might dare
To stain his radiant arms or glittering spear;
While each true martyr, ere he yield his breath,
Looks to that stranger’s eye, and smiles in death.

Now shouts are heard! from Arsouf’s crimson stream
With thundering speed triumphant Richard came.
He, not too far by present glory led
To scorn the havoc far behind him made;
Changed like a god the fortune of the war,
And the foil’d Moslems quit the half-won car.
Oh, Cœur de Lion! why withhold the name
With which applauding comrades stamp’d thy fame;
When armies fled before thy withering glance,
And victory waited on a single lance?
As earth, and rocks, and bristling wood betray
Where the spring torrent forced its furious way,
Though Alpine snows supply its rage no more,
And the hot sun have wasted all its store;
Of arms and steeds, the wounded and the slain,
A ghastly track grows dreadful o’er the plain.
Such then the terrors of his arm, that still
At Richaed’s name Arabian bosoms thrill!
The restive courser starts that sound to hear,
And infant cries are check’d by sudden fear.^uu
 Where yet by Arsouf’s wood the Moslems fought,
Dismay and death his biting falchion brought.
What checks his conquering course?—a form, a face,
Whose youthful beauty oft he loved to trace,
Defaced with many a gaping wound, and known
By Montmorency’s eaglet-crest alone.
“Ah! whence this cruel deed?”—The dying lord
Waves the red remnant of his broken sword,
And points to Saladine, who on the right
Still urged the fainting Lombards into flight.
The Monarch spurs to vengeance. “Turn!” he cried,
“By England’s King is Saladine defied.
Ah! what avails this throng of martyrs slain?
While we, the authors of the war, remain?
Let angry strife suspend its mutual rage
While we for Sion and for fame engage—
Thy fabling Koran, and th’ Eternal Page.”
 “I never brought a ruthless host from far
To seek thy crown, and rouse thy world to war;
Me not with curses ravaged Europe names,
Her harvests trampled, and her towns in flames!
The war is thine!—Yet come,” the Soldan cried,
“Ne’er was it said that Saladine denied
To meet a foe that Islam’s faith defied.”
 They wheel around, they rush in full career,
Each sits unmoved, and breaks his faithless spear.
The Soldan snatch’d a second from his slave,
To Richard’s hand a second Pardo gave;
Again th’ impetuous chiefs the course renew,
Again on earth the shining splinters flew;
Till either Sovereign, casting from his hand
The shiver’d truncheon, bares his glittering brand.
Now blows descend, above, below, around
The lightning flashes and the arms resound;
The Soldan’s sword, at Richard’s head addrest,
Cleft from his morion half its broomy crest;
While Caliburn through helm and turban glides,
And from the Soldan’s arm the mail divides.
The Soldan strikes again,—his furious blow
Rings on the buckler of his mighty foe,—
It lops the golden boss; but Richard lent
A dreadful stroke, which, on his shoulder sent,
Forced him to earth, while, from his burthen freed,
Pranced through th’ affrighted ranks the startled steed.
Now Richard springs to ground, to wage the war
On equal terms; but Mosul’s generous heir,
Who mark’d his Sovereign’s need, dismounts in haste,
And on his seat the wounded Soldan placed.
In vain would Richard now the fight prolong,
Around their Chief the faithful Mamlukes throng;
With England’s King a desperate strife maintain,
And in the press was beauteous Favel slain.^x
Just as the Monarch with an active bound,
Leaped to the seat, he felt the erring wound;
Deep in his side received the stroke of death,
Bent on his knees, and gasp’d his latest breath.
 Oh! then what wrath in Richard’s bosom rose,
A wrath that issued not in words but blows.
What wrath inflamed his Peers! on all the plain
With fiercer fires the combat wakes again.
On foot the Monarch fights,—the dastard crowd
Flies from his single arm; he shouts aloud,
“Bring forth my generous Lyard!”—at the sound
The Norman war-horse paws the echoing ground.
Black were his limbs as Pluto’s murky reign,
And glittering bells adorn his glossy mane;
His furniture was gold;—with wings outspread,
A dreadful raven nodded o’er his head.
Long had he mourn’d to see the Cyprian steed
Usurp his master’s love;—from bondage freed,
And prancing to his lord, he joys again
In his proud load, and spurns the purple plain,
He champs his golden bit, his eyes flash fire,
Beneath his hoofs the trampled crowds expire;
The living fly, they see their comrades bleed,
Nor deem that wond’rous horse of mortal breed.
While Caliburn now these, now those, bereft
Of life and limb, or to the saddle cleft.
Such fear ensues, that had not Adel’s hand
Enforced the valour which his words command,
And been himself their shield, that fatal day
Had swept the boast of Ayoub’s race away.
 But with surpassing rage the Leopard Knight
Pursues the Moslem who disturb’d the fight;
Seiffeddin’s offspring, by his father’s care
Already mounted, and engaged in war.
They met, and each the half sheath’d falchion drew,
And rais’d, and dropp’d; for each together knew,
One the veil’d shield, and one th’ egret of blue,
“Nay,” Pardo cried, “our force let others feel,
Nor hands once clasp’d in friendship urge the steel;
Farewell!”—“Yet pause,” said Aladin, “and hear
If to thy heart Almanzor’s child be dear:
Thou know’st that long (though wars might intervene)
Moheddin sought her for his haram’s queen.
Prepared already was her ample dower,
And presents given, and fix’d th’ auspicious hour,
When droop’d the nymph—in vain the Imaums pray’d,
Or bound with holy scrolls her burning head;
Pale as the unconscious tenant of the tomb,
Or blossom withering in the hot simoom,
Her spark of life seems twinkling to expire;
So Rezia weeping said—her wretched sire
Explores a cause in vain, but none can tell,
Unless thy conscious heart resolve the spell.”
 He paus’d; but Pardo vainly sought reply,
Till feeling burst in one convulsive sigh.
“Ah! what avails it—Oh! could both forget,
Thus doom’d to meet no more, that e’er they met!
What now remains but to bewail thy doom,
And pine like thee, and perish on thy tomb!”
 “Hope yet shall live!” cried Aladin: “attend—
Foe to thy faith, believe me yet thy friend:
Though sacred laws perchance, or jealous pride,
Have here to love his sweetest food denied,
Soft looks, and ‘whispered thought of hearts allied:’
Yet he who swims the moat, and scales the wall,
Gains strength from bars like these, to leap them all.
He teaches language to the silent flowers;
And not a blossom decks Arabian bowers,
How scentless, small soe’er, or faint of dye,
But bears some sense to conscious beauty’s eye.
Such will I twine—I know their legends well—
The passion-flower a Christian Knight shall tell;
And hope, and fear, and mutual love exprest,
Amina’s fluttering heart may read the rest.
But see, while thus the precious hour I waste,
What demon sweeps our ranks!”—he waved in haste
His graceful hand, and spurred his foaming horse,
While death and terror mark his conquering course.
 But Pardo sits entranced:—the flying throng,
That Richard scatters, pass’d uncheck’d along,
Till Mahmoud spoke: “Is this a place of sleep?
Christian! thy slumber shall be long and deep;
Deep as the grave.”—But, waking from his trance
At the rude summons of the Arab lance,
Young Pardo spurs his steed; to earth he bore
The vanquished Saracen, to rise no more.
Urged by that inward grief that knows not balm,
And rage, which only Moslem blood can calm,
The Knight, whose courteous manners all admired,
Now seem’d some fiend, with wrath infernal fired.
Grave Ibrahim, whose beard of snowy white
Down to his girdle flow’d, a reverend sight,
Seized by that snowy beard, contends in vain,
His headless trunk falls bleeding on the plain.
Reft of an arm the Nubian Calaf died,
The deadly weapon pierced Melcazar’s side:—
Melcazar, sweetest of the youths that sung
His own Bokhara’s odorous shades among;
Her shepherds oft by fount or citron grove
Wept as he pictured hapless Mejnoun’s love;
While nymphs, like Leila fair, the bowers would throng,
And with applauding roses crown the song;
Or shower’d sweet jasmine from their latticed screen,
Like fairy favours, dropp’d by hands unseen.
 Shahriar, who in Medina’s house of gloom
Thrice saw his Prophet’s self-suspended tomb,
And strove the sins of early life to clear
By fast and prayer, and penitence austere,
Despite of texts inwoven with his mail,
Falls, nor his Prophet nor his prayers avail.
 Thus (like Hyperion, when his orient ray
Gives gracious promise of a golden day)
While the young hero track’d his way with blood,
Aghast in wonder hoary veterans stood;
E’en Cœur de Lion check’d his foaming horse,
Amazed, exulting in his favourite’s force.

A Christian Knight,—but let the page of fame
Refuse its record to the dastard’s name—
By Aladin’s ungated sword pursued,
Sought fatal refuge in th’ Enchanted Wood;
He sought and found—for through the waving leaves
White vests and glittering arms the Prince perceives;
Nor longer for the craven’s blood he burn’d
But from the grove his docile charger turn’d;
An instant sees him at Zorayda’s side.
“Bright moon of earth, my soul’s best gem,” he cried,
“Vain is our struggle here, our valour vain,
He who could yonder wolf of war restrain
Might bid the wither’d leaves be green again.
Yet if for vengeance pine my injur’d love,
The Monarch’s Haram waits in yonder grove,
Slight seems the guard, not slight our triumph won
If in his consort’s fate we rule his own.”
 Strong in the willing aid of Almahide
They quit the field, and through the forest ride;
And soon they came where, fearless of a snare,
Far from the clash of arms, the shouts of war,
Each royal beauty through the waving shade
Seem’d nymph, or dryad of the shadowy glade;
Anxious, yet calm, their thoughts to heaven addrest,
With pious hopes they charm their fears to rest.
The reckless Hermesind, in smiles array’d,
Lists to Ricardo, who beside her laid,
Pours his delicious flattery on her ear,
Or turns with looks of livelier joy to hear
Her converse brilliant, sprightly, and refined,
But like the dew, that leaves no trace behind.
 Unhappy youth, forbear the moonlight grove,
Break thy soft lute, and cease thy songs of love;
Nor hope, bewilder’d in her witching snare,
To touch that heart, if yet a heart be there.
Drown Love in War:—and hark! that war is near,
On his smooth shield rings Albert’s warning spear;
And fifty warriors, starting at the sound,
In steely phalanx guard their treasure round.
 His vizor down, his ashen spear in rest,
’Gainst Aladin the ready Albert prest;
But he, who saw th’ expected prize so nigh,
Disdains the single fight, and past him by.
Not so Noureddin’s child; with lance opposed
She meets her foe, and soon in combat closed;
Both hope an easy spoil, and grieve to feel
A warrior worthy of their practised steel.
 Meanwhile the Persian Prince and Gallic maid
With baleful eyes the iron ring survey’d.
In vain with taunts they rouse each faithful knight,
Each curbs his rising wrath, and shuns the fight;
While sure destruction threatens him who dares
To rush, unhappy, on their hedge of spears.
But the young warrior, tempering force with skill,
Aims his light dart, to torture not to kill;
Helias’ steed receives the smarting wound
In his left eye, and flinging to the ground
His startled lord, he spreads confusion round.
The line thus broke, prepared the Persian stood,
His vantage seized, and bathed his sword in blood.—
The Pisan Ugo welters in his gore,
Iberian Carlos sinks to rise no more;
Carlos, who loved the proud Castilian maid,
Whose heartless taunts his faithful vows repaid
His life unblest, yet happy in his death,
Since for her sake he yields his wretched breath.
Her lover’s deeds Zorayda’s soul inspire,
Her pride they kindle and her envy fire;
She spares not those of Gaul’s paternal soil,
Nor those once dear in Albion’s happy isle.
Where each devoted warrior seeks alone
His sovereign’s safety, and neglects his own,
Rich were her spoils, her laurels cheaply won.
Of fifty, late the guardians of the shade,
Cold on the turf are thirty heroes laid;
While scarce the rest their ponderous arms sustain,
And with a sanguine deluge bathe the plain.
Count Mirlo piercing in her mad career,
(Her cousin once, when France or kin were dear.)
Now through the broken ring the fury flies,
And hope already grasps th’ expected prize;
Evanthe, sickening, faints in mute despair,
With clasped hands Matilda sinks in prayer;
While Berengaria from a lifeless hand
Snatch’d the broad shield, and waved the shining brand.
“Death, not pollution for a hero’s bride,
For Richard’s Queen!” th’ intrepid beauty cried.
“For Richard’s Queen!” her ruthless foe replied;
“And who art thou that darest such rank assume?
False bird, this hand shall strip thy borrow’d plume.”
 But Albert sees, no more can Almahide
Detain the Knight, he seek his Sovereign’s side;
What demon then might match Zorayda’s rage,
Again compell’d a desperate strife to wage?
Robb’d of a prize that seemed already won,
Her glory tarnished, and her vengeance gone.
Nor less Aleppo s Princess blames the Knight,
She calls him craven, and demands the fight;
While anxious only from Zorayda’s hand
To save his Queen, he slights her fierce demand.
And she, too generous with unequal force
To press a single warrior, turns her horse,
And crossing, as she fled, Matilda’s way,
Bears through the forest her defenceless prey.
 Fair Hermesind’s rich robes and courtly mien
To Mosul’s erring Prince exprest a Queen;
Fawnlike she fled, she seeks the thicker wood,
While on his goaded horse the Prince pursued.
In vain Ricardo, desperate, crost his way,
To buy with life one instant of delay;
And seized with powerful grasp the rein of gold,
His wounded arm reluctant yields its hold;
Yet scarce he feels the smart, one pang possest
His faithful soul, and silenced all the rest.
It chanced a path the flying virgin took
Where dash’d o’er mossy stones a brawling brook;
So close the rocks arose, and twining boughs,
That scarce its dizzy verge a pass allows.
In need less desperate, ill the timid maid
Had dared that narrow dangerous way to tread;
At least had claim’d Ricardo’s help, and shewn
A thousand pretty fears, half feign’d and half her own.
Yet fearless now she skims the slippery shore,
Nor sees the foam, nor hears the waters roar.
Ricardo saw, and while the Persian steed
His tedious way with painful labour freed,
He, fleetest of the fleet, in wanton course
Who oft outmatch’d the stag, or generous horse,
Now in the tangled brake by love sustain’d,
Through nearer ways the angry torrent gain’d.
Where to the rock above a cedar clung
Impending o’er the path; aloft he sprung—
The crashing fibres yield, the falling shade
Divides the eager prince and flying maid.
In vain—his steed scarce pausing, dares the bound,
And lights uninjur’d on the slippery ground;
He gains each moment on her slackening flight,
He grasps her mantle; while the wretched knight,
Crush’d by the load, and struggling in the wave,
Hears her loud shrieks,—he hears and cannot save!
 Who in that deadliest регЦ rush’d between?
The Knight Unknown, the Knight of armour green!
He who by coy disdain and silent pride
Had touch’d a heart to pleading love denied.
In combat late with Egypt’s King engaged
By Arsouf’s stream, his dauntless valour waged
The lengthen’d contest, till when Asia’s lord
With England stood, they sheath’d the mutual sword;
Nor since reviving war with fiercer hate
Her fires rekindled, had the warriors met.
Now warn’d by Salem’s King, who love-inspired,
Mark’d where the Moslem Chiefs from fight retired,
With him be followed, and as Lusignan
To aid the Queen, to raise Evanthe ran,
For Hermesind he rush’d to fiercest fight,
For Hermesind,— who check’d her weary flight.
They tought, till Adel spurring through the shade,
“And think not thus to shun my sword,” he said,
“ Turn, Christian! turn; and thou young Prince, resign
The fight unjust, yon craven’s spoils are mine.”
 “ Behold me here prepared,” the Knight replied,
“For both or either; be ye both defied!
Yet better might thy taunts be aim’d at those
Who quit the field to war on female foes.”
 “On female foes!” indignant Adel cries,
As round the wood he rolls his searching eyes;
“Now praised be Alla! praised the Prophet’s name,
No true believer shares this deed of shame.
Thou, through thy visor’d casque so rarely seen,
Whate’er thou art, apostate, Nazarene,
And thou young Fatimite, far hence remove,^y
Too much ye trespass on my brother’s love.
And know ye not that, when a city falls,
E’en the rude conqueror spares the haram walls?^z
Christian! in combat we shall meet again—
Meanwhile accept for each fair victim slain,
Whate’er the price, her double worth in gold,
Or two, the fairest that my harams hold.
Hundreds they boast that well might pay the debt,
Whose veils to me were never lifted yet.”—
 “Moslem! not thus a woman’s worth we prize,”
With all a Christian’s auger, Albert cries.
“Say, should thy walls some Cleopatra boast,
More fair than her for whom a world was lost,
Poor were that ransom for Matilda paid,
Our Monarch’s sister, now dishonour’d, dead.”
 “Thy foul reproach, ungenerous Christian, spare,
Nor stain our glory with so base a fear,”
Cried Mosul’s Prince;—“by flattering demons led,
We sought in bonds to bind each royal maid,
That he who fills Damascus’ walls with gloom,
Who makes our towns a waste, our lands a tomb.
Who loves the widow’s and the orphan’s cry,
Might find one grief to cloud his victory;
Nor farther had our sated rage pursued,
Nor stain’d one sword in unoffending blood;
Then fear not for your captive, none,” he cried,
“Dares doubt the spotless faith of Almahide.”
 That dreadful name which oft had spread despair
Through marshall’d ranks, now silenced every fear.
“Enough,” the monarch said, distrust and shame
Fly from her presence—I forbear to blame.
And you, brave Christians! let your valiant Lord
Forego his fears, and trust an Arab’s word.
We fight as sovereigns, not as fiends, to gain
Or guard our faith, our glory, and our reign.
Revenge we love, yet boast our hearts have won
A generous spark from yon all-bounteous sun;
And by that only God, whose ruling will
Perchance for good designs this seeming ill,
By highest heaven, where saints and angels dwell,
By the dread bridge and endless flames of hell,
To England’s King an Arab’s faith I plight
To bring the Princess with the orient light.”
 He spoke, and from the scene of contest leads,
Abash’d and sad young Aladin proceeds;
While Gaul’s proud maid her rival lingering view’d,
And curs’d the sword that fail’d to shed her blood.
Oh! if our will such baleful power could give,
No mortal eye might meet that glance and live.

But Hermesind, whose vanity was still
Her beacon-light, that led to good or ill;
Graceful before her brave preserver knelt,
Pour’d all her thanks, and more than all she felt.
Oh! who could hear unmoved, of mortal mould,
Such gratitude, so eloquently told
In tones so sweet, from lips of hue so bright,
Such glowing cheeks, and eyes of liquid light!
Yet if slight waving of the warrior’s crest,
Or silken scarf, some rebel thoughts confest,
His words were calm and few.—“T’was knighthood’s care,
Her boast, her oath, to guard and aid the fair,
T’was duty and no more.”— “Yet hear,” she said,
“Nor deem that guile inspires a simple maid,
Or curious folly, if I fain would know,
To whom my life, or more than life, I owe?
Whate’er the cause that makes thee court disguise,
My lips shall guard the trust my heart will prize,
Safe as the wealth to caves of ocean given,
Nor breathed, save in my orisons to heaven;
Those orisons which call its saints to save,
For deathless fame, the generous and the brave.”
 In swifter beat the heaving scarf appear’d,
The murmur of preluding speech was heard;
When, as by some mistrustful thought inspired,
He bowed a mute refusal, and retired.
Baffled again, her angry feelings rise,
And lightnings flash indignant from her eyes,
They glance upon Ricardo’s pallid face,
And all again is gentleness and grace.
Devoted more, but less by fortune blest,
Still the fall’n tree his wounded limbs opprest.
Who knew like her each fascinating art,
In dreams of heaven to lap the willing heart!
Her eyes shone bright in tears, her tender hand
Was gentlest, first, to fix each needful band;
Nor her warm thanks with less of nature came,
Though often check’d, as if by virgin shame;
Or fear to raise,—since love to hope is prone—
Hopes that her calmer reason might disown.
 Drest by such hands could wounds forbear to close,
Could heart so happy vainly court repose?
As on his couch a lingering moon he lay,
Bright rainbow visions wiled its lapse away.
His was a courteous soul, whose livelier powers
Could gild the stream of pleasure’s social hours;
But ‘twas a radiance cold and rarely given,
Like gleams of sunshine on December’s heaven.
Sweet were his songs, and framed with tuneful art
To soothe or soften, not to raise the heart;
While love, which fires the proud to arduous deeds
In his mild breast its native sadness feeds.
Yet ne’er had pleasure spread such halcyon calm,
Ne’er seem’d his hours so redolent of balm,
As now, though oft to thrilling pangs a prey—
(Unheeded pangs)—for still with every day
She came, like some angelic guest, to bring
To his exhausted thoughts another spring.
Short was her stay, by modesty restrain’d,
Yet like soft fragrance on his soul remain’d
Some look, some motion, as she left the tent,
Some word or tone, as o’er his couch she bent.
He longs for strength, for her to fight, to die;
He trembles lest his dream of bliss should fly.

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Notes

Book I

§ Note (a), page 8, line 42. Alkarmel, fellest of Messiah’s foes.

Mount Carmel is memorable in Sacred History as the spot on which Elijah confounded the priests of Baal, and also as the scene of his retirement. The cavern which the Prophet inhabited is still shewn. This mountain seems to have been indeed one of those “high places” selected for religious ceremonies in all ages, and to have witnessed them in all their variety. After the fire of Heaven had thus once destroyed idolatry, we have the authority of Suetonius, that a pagan divinity of the same name with the mountain was worshipped there. He had an altar, and sacrifices, but no temple or statue. Him the Romans transformed into the Carmelian Jove, to whom Vespasian offered a sacrifice, when he came into Syria to subdue the rebel Jews. The Convent of the Virgin next occupied the height; it was in its turn profaned by Mahommedan superstition, but was afterwards restored, and gave rise to the military order of “Our Lady of Mount Carmel,” instituted by Henry the Fourth of France. I believe this convent is still in existence. Carmel has shared the fate of the rest of Syria, where neglect and oppression have made a desert of regions that nature formed a garden. Its summit is craggy, but even there a few wild vines and olive trees attest the fertility for which it was once so famous, and whence it derived its name, Carmel signifying in Hebrew, “the vine of God.” The mountain forms one of the most remarkable headlands on the coast of the Mediterranean. ↩

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§ Note (b), page 9, line 77. Joy! for this night the Queen Sybilla dies.

Sybilla was daughter to Amalric King of Jerusalem, by his first wife Agnes de Courtenay, only child to Joceline de Courtenay, third and last Count of Edessa. She was first married to William Longsword, son of William the Third, Marquis of Montferrat, and elder brother of Conrad of Montferrat. By him she had issue Baldwin the Fifth. Her first husband dying, Sibylla married Guy de Lusignan, whom she is said to have chosen for his personal beauty. At her father’s death, her brother, Baldwin the Fourth, succeeded to the throne of Jerusalem: but he was a leper, and his talents, though considerable, were not equal to supply the inexperience of youth and the defects of nature. He soon fell a victim to his malady, and the unhappy realm of Jerusalem, already involved in dangers from which only the greatest prudence and courage could extricate it, devolved on the infant son of Sybilla and Montferrat. Raymond Count of Tripoli was chosen as his guardian and regent of the kingdom: but he insisted, as he was next male heir to the throne, that the custody of the young king should be shared by Joceline Count of Edessa. The character of Raymond might have been deemed above suspicion, but the event shewed that his fears were prudent, for in less than six months the little Baldwin died, and his mother succeeded him aa Queen, not without suspicion of having contributed to his death. ↩

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§ Note (с), page 11, line 109. The Cyprian sceptre base Comnenus sways.

At the period when the poem commences, Cyprus was in the possession of the usurper Isaac Comnenus, the descendant of that Alexius who filled the throne of Constantinople during the first Crusade, and whose hollow friendship, perhaps, cost more lives to the noble leaders whom he had invited from Europe, than his enmity could have done. It is impossible to read the history of those times, without wondering at the duplicity of the Greeks and the forbearance of the Latins. The feeling that the Greeks were Christians, and that their vow was to combat the enemies of Christianity seems to have had extraordinary force upon bands of warriors strong enough to have crushed the faithless empire, and who when in Europe were not remarkable for their moderation. In the middle ages (notwithstanding the glorious exception of two Emperors of the Comnenian line) the name of Greek appears indeed to have been synonymous with every possible aggravation of meanness, treachery, cowardice, and cruelty. Vinesauf, in a furious tirade against the Greeks, observes, that the vices of their ancestors remained to them, but that their virtues had all passed into Italy. The perfidy of Sinon, the craft of Ulysses, and the atrocity of Atreus, were still theirs by inheritance. ↩

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§ Note (d), page 12, line 148. Have we not crush’d Imperial Conrad’s host?

These lines allude to the disastrous event of the second Crusade. The Emperor Conrad the Third of Germany and Louis the Seventh of France pursued different roads through Asia Minor; and the valour of the Seljouk Turks of Iconium was not move fatal to the followers of Conrad, than the perfidy of the Greek guides, who injured their health by supplying them with unwholesome provisions, and either led them into deserts, where myriads perished from famine, or betrayed them to their enemies. The Emperor, at last, with less than one tenth of his original numbers, succeeded in joining the army of Louis, which had also met with many disasters, but was in greater force, and had been amused by the Greeks with tales of the feigned successes of Conrad. The battle of Laodicea followed, in which the Turks suffered a defeat so signal, that the Greeks acknowledged the moderation of the Crusaders in not having levelled Constantinople with the ground. But many miseries again awaited them on their road to Antioch, and the second Crusade terminated in the fruitless attempt on Damascus. The town was already in the extremity of despair, when the Syriac Christians became jealous that their western allies should enjoy the spoils which their valour was about to win, and by treacherously prevailing on them to change their point of attack, rendered the whole expedition abortive. ↩

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§ Note (e), page 12, line 153. We fill’d with leprosy the courts of kings!

The successes of Saladine had been assisted by an earthquake, which overthrew the fortifications of several cities that would otherwise have opposed him. These lines allude also to the comets and meteoric phenomena so often noticed in the history of the Crusades, to the frequent famine and drought from which the Christians suffered, and to the leprosy of Baldwin the Fourth. ↩

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§ Note (f), page 13, line 170. Who trifles with his friendship, sports with fate.

The conduct of Frederic Barbarossa, in resenting the duplicity of the Greeks was more spirited than that of his precursors had been. In one instance he shewed his resentment by causing the standard of the western Empire to float from the walls of Constantinople, and Isaac Angelus found it thenceforward prudent to treat with somewhat better faith, a monarch that he found had the will as well as the power to punish him. The Sultans of Iconium followed the double policy of the Greeks, by feigning a friendship for the army whose approach they dreaded, and then profiting by its fancied security. But Frederic, though attacked in the mountains, and at disadvantage, when the two divisions of his army were at a distance from each other, gave the Turks a signal defeat. The Emperor and his son, Frederic Duke of Suabia, both distinguished themselves highly in this engagement. ↩

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§ Note (g), page 19, line 293. “To rule the Eagle!” cried the Prince of Tyre.

The house of Montferrat was descended from the Dukes of Saxony, and was at this period one of the most powerful in Italy. William the Third, surnamed the Old, had married a sister of the Emperor Conrad. He had four sons: Boniface, who received the crown of Thessaly as the reward of his achievements at the taking of Constantinople in 1203; William Longsword, the second son, has been already named as the first husband of Sybilla. Reynier, the third, died in the Holy Land about three years before the loss of Jerusalem. The fourth son, who after his imperial uncle bore the name of Conrad, was the most distinguished; and the graces of his person were no less remarkable than his valour. After the surrender of the Holy City, he arrived at Tyre in the very moment when the inhabitants were about to deliver up the town to Saladine. His presence inspired fresh courage, he forced the Soldan to raise the siege, and thus preserved the only city which the Christians still retained in Palestine. His assumption of the government and title of Prince of Tyre was a natural sequel to these events, but it is to be regretted that his subsequent violence destroyed the esteem which he had acquired by his talents. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 20, line 304. Or when her warlike peers no more obeyed.

Scarcely had Baldwin the Fifth expired, when his mother became desirous to reign in his stead, and disdained neither stratagem nor false promises to satisfy her ambition and that of Lusignan. While the Count of Tripoli assembled the Barons of the empire at Napolose, the daughter of Amalric, acting by the advice of Heraclius, Patriarch of Jerusalem, and Eudon, Grand Master of the Templars, announced her intention of separating herself from her husband, and choosing a warrior who was able to defend the kingdom: on condition that the Barons would acknowledge as king, him whom she should elect. The Barons, who expected that her choice would fall upon Raymond, readily consented. The gates of Jerusalem were closed, and Sybilla repaired to the church of the Holy Sepulchre, attended by her nobles, and crowned with a garland. Mass was sung before the sacred tomb. Heraclius vowed fidelity to her in the name of the clergy and the people, pronounced aloud her divorce from Lusignan, and commanded her in the name of Heaven to bestow her hand and the sceptre on the man whom she believed to be most worthy. Sybilla next prostrated herself, to implore the guidance of Providence in her choice; then rising, she raised the chaplet from her head, and placed it on with solemnity on the brows of Lusignan, declaring that “man could not separate those whom Heaven had united.” The nobles felt that they were duped: and if a few, imposed upon by the splendour of the scene, applauded the conjugal fidelity and affection of Sybilla, the majority foresaw the evils which so imprudent a choice was likely to bring upon Jerusalem; and the friends of Raymond, in particular, felt indignant at the elevation of one, who while he filled the high office of Regent during part of the reign of Baldwin the Fourth, had proved how unequal he was to the government of a kingdom, already involved in difficulty and danger. — Hoveden, Michaud, Mills, &c. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 21, line 342. Like some strong tower, stood Austrian Leopold.

Leopold Duke of Austria. Shakespeare has introduced him in his play of King John, but he died four or five years before the accession of that monarch. ↩

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§ Note (k), page 23, line 376. Your robes polluting with a Herald’s blood.

The Prince of the Assassins, stimulated, as is supposed, by the wish to be freed from a tribute which he paid to the Grand Master of the Templars, sent offers of alliance to Baldwin the Fourth, and a proposal to embrace Christianity with all his followers. To these advantageous terms Baldwin had agreed, but the Grand Master was loth to give up his tribute, and as the Envoy left the King’s tent, two of the Templars (some say Eudon himself) fell upon him, and dispatched him with their daggers. ↩

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§ Note (l), page 23, line 392. The bonds of life, this pains my sires in heaven.

In this part of my story I have followed the judgment of Messrs. Michaud, and Marin, who endeavour to repair the injustice which appears to have been done to the character of Raymond by the greater number of historians. His discontent at the election of Lusignan to the throne of Jerusalem, led him to form a party in favour of Thoron, but Thoron declined the proffered honour, and Raymond retired to his county of Tripoli. Lusignan, instead of conciliating him, determined to besiege his town of Tiberias, or Tabaria; Raymond prepared to defend it, and in his anger implored the assistance of Saladine. At this time dreadful portents were seen in heaven and earth, and the Knights Templars and Hospitallers were nearly all cut off by a Musulman army, which had advanced into Galilee, on its way, it was said, to the assistance of Raymond. The terror of this defeat appeased the discords of the Christians, and Lusignan and Raymond were reconciled. The forces of the kingdom assembled in the plain of Saphoury, to the number of fifty thousand, when intelligence was received that Saladine had taken and burned the town of Tiberias, and now besieged in its citadel the wife and three sons of Raymond, who intreated his instant succour. The Barons assembled in the tent of Lusignan, when Raymond demanded to be heard: “I am about to offer,” he said, “a counsel that will surprise all; but I give it with more confidence as it is contrary to my interest.” In a word, he declared that he could not prefer the defence of his own family and possessions to the safety of the Christians of the East; the army now assembled at Saphoury was their only hope, and that to lead it into a dry and barren desert would be its destruction. He swore before God and men that he would voluntarily abandon the county of Tripoli, and all his possessions to save the town of Jesus Christ. Their only interest was to destroy Saladine, and to preserve defenders to Jerusalem; and that all the evils which might fall upon him would become a source of good, since he endured them for the cause of his Saviour, and the welfare of his people. The more generous this advice appeared, the less was it believed sincere. The Grand Master of the Templars, blinded by his hatred to Raymond, interrupted him many times with allusions to his treaty with Saladine, and said that the hair of the wolf might be seen under the sheep’s skin. When Raymond invoked the name of Christ, Eudon replied that Mahommed would sound better from a traitor. Raymond scorned to recriminate, but offered to submit to death if events were not as he had predicted. Marin compares the blindness of the Christians to that of the Trojans concerning the prophecies of Cassandra. They persisted in accusing Raymond of treason. Yet the force of his reasoning prevailed, and it was determined to remain at Saphoury. But during the night the Grand Master of the Templars came to Lusignan, and filled him with the blackest suspicions of the treachery of Raymond. The weak Prince gave orders for the army to advance: for the first time he was obeyed, and it was for the ruin of the Christians. This army was indeed the only hope of Palestine, for even this was equipped from sources not her own. England had already begun to supply the necessities of other nations; it was supported by the treasures which Henry the Second had sent to Jerusalem; and to associate that monarch in the glory of the expedition, the arms of England were emblazoned on the banners of the Christian forces. All was lost at Tiberias: the wood of the True Cross was taken, the army was annihilated, and Lusignan a captive. If the heroic valour of Raymond on this dreadful day, if the fulfilment of his words, be not evidence of his truth, it might be inferred from the wildness and incongruity of his calumniators. Raymond found refuge at Tyre, and on his return to defend Tripoli, was attacked by a mortal illness, caused by grief at the downfall of the Christians, and the shame of having been suspected of treason by those for whom he had sacrificed everything. His ardent character changed to a deep melancholy, which ended in madness. The time of his death is variously stated. I shall say nothing of the idle stories, that he and Saladine had drank human blood as a pledge of friendship, that he fought masked against the Templars, that he had embraced Islamism, that he was smothered in his bed by his people, who wished to force him to surrender, or that he was stabbed by the envoys of Saladine. Mr. Mills, I perceive, is among those who doubt the fidelity of Raymond, but in my opinion the very violence of his character places it above suspicion. ↩

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§ Note (m), page 25, line 427. But lauded Hubert’s martial pilgrimage.

Hubert, Bishhop of Salisbury, and afterwards Primate of England, deserves to be singled out even from a crowd of heroes; he was one of the bravest warriors of the third crusade, and not more distinguished for his martial prowess than his Christian virtues. This prelate and the amiable Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, form a striking contrast with the haughty Philip, Bishop of Beauvais, and the libertine Geoffrey, Archbishop of York (son of Rosamond), who became the helmet much better than the mitre. ↩

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§ Note (n), page 26, line 449. Till contrite hearts appeas’d the offended Lord.

As the crusades were supposed to be undertaken under the immediate sanction of Heaven, those who embarked in them expected some evident interposition of divine favour in their behalf. They disdained the common precautions of war, and murmured when they felt those evils to which their own imprudence had exposed them. In those cases, the clergy and leaders who shared the enthusiasm of their followers, or who were at least interested to support it, found their best resource in the assertion, that the crimes of the Crusaders (which were in truth sufficiently glaring) had forfeited the favour of the Almighty, and that it was in vain to hope for success, until a general reformation of manners and morals, accompanied with sincere penitence and humiliation, should first have washed away the stain. The appeal was seldom vain, reformation followed, and the enthusiasm which accompanied it frequently prepared the way to the anticipated success; and though the good resolutions which had been formed, quickly vanished in the delirium of victory, the licentiousness which ensued only gave fresh force to the next admonition. Antioch witnessed two or three of these alternations of feeling. While that city was besieged by the Christians, a severe famine led to the most horrible crimes: but the exhortations of the pious Adhemar were at length answered by a return to the strictest rules of moral discipline. Immediately afterwards Godfrey recovered from a violent illness, and a victory was obtained over the forces which were hastening to the assistance of Baghasian. It would have been heresy to doubt that these happy events were marks of the restored favour of Heaven. Again, when the Christians, having conquered Antioch, were in their turn besieged by Kerboga, and reduced to extremity by a famine still more dreadful than the former, the “pious fraud” of the Sacred Lance was the harbinger at once of the restoration of order, and the signal victory which annihilated the army of that prince. Mr. Mills has drawn a very pleasing picture of the good conduct of the Christian army before Nice. “The camp presented the rare and edifying spectacle of a chaste and sober soldiery; and although not free from the common disposition of exalting past ages at the expense of the present, the confession was drawn from the severest censors, that there was far more virtue among the crusading warriors, than among the hosts of Israel in old time. The simplicity and purity of the early church were revived. So affectionate was the union between the brotherhood, that all things were held in common. The generals not only commanded and fought, but watched, and did the most humble duties of the camp: so that the officer and the soldier were scarcely to be distinguished. Artificial discipline was needless, when virtue pervaded every part of manners,”—History of the Crusades, vol. I, ch. iv. ↩

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§ Note (о), page 29, line 513. My mother gave me, an unwilling bride.

Mr. Mills has justly observed, that in the middle ages, whenever a divorce was desired, a pretext was easily found. Yet if ever nonage could bc admitted as a plea, it must be allowed that Isabelle was entitled to claim it, as she was but eight years old when her mother bestowed her on the Count of Thoron. ↩

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§ Note, page 30, line 543. Four reverend priests the Book of Life sustain.

This Standard is described by Vinesauf and most of the writers on the third crusade. Mailly observes, from Le Gendre that the custom of placing the banner on the top of a tree, itself raised on a scaffold, and drawn on a car by six oxen with velvet housings, adorned with the arms of the leader, was prevalent in the twelfth century, and that it came from Italy. The Crusaders probably owed the idea to the Pisans and Genoese, who sustained a considerable share in the siege of Acre. Vinesauf evidently speaks of it as a novelty. The fashion appears to have lasted only about one hundred and twenty years, being found cumbrous and inconvenient. It must have been almost impossible for a defeated army to save its standard.

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§ Note, page 30, line 544. Near it rode Lusignan, whose vest displayed.

For the arrangement of this battle see Marin; Histoire de Saladin, vol. ii. p. 184.

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§ Note, page 32, line 570. Who in Tabaria’s field its guards subdued.

Tekieddin Omar was the nephew of Saladine, and one of the bravest of his generals. He was the bitter enemy of the Christians, who had but too many reasons to deplore his valour. At the fatal battle of Tiberias he took Lusignan prisoner, and also the True Cross, which Rufinus, the Bishop of Acre, according to custom, carried that day in battle. The Bishop was armed with a cuirass, contrary to the usage of all the other Prelates, who before him had carried that Holy Wood unarmed, yet had never received a wound, whereas he, notwithstanding his armour, was shot quite through the heart with an arrow. Omar, in presenting the cross to Saladino, observed, “it should seem, from the lamentations of the Franks, that this wood is not the least important fruit of our victory.” After Saladine’s entry into Jerusalem, the splendid gold Cross which the Christians had erected on the summit of the mosque built by the Caliph Omar, and which occupied the site of the Temple of Solomon, was cast down and dragged through the streets in the mud, to the Tower of David, amid the lamentations of the Christians.”—Maimbourg, Marin, &c.

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§ Note, page 34, line 628. Five dauntless Mamlukes, in his palace bred.

With this slender guard, five of his principal Mamlukes (for the number is specified) Saladine passed many times through the enemy, and endeavoured to rally his flying troops. Speaking of the Mamlukes, Marin observes, “we must not confound those whom we have hitherto called Mamlukes, with those that afterwards reigned in Egypt. This name properly signifies a domestic slave, and was given to those who were particularly attached to the service of the Prince or his Emirs. In the commencement the Mamlukes were the children of the concubines of the Sultan, but afterwards the latter purchased slaves, of which they formed their halca or guard; and they often passed from the vilest employments to the command of armies. Saladine was the first who formed them into a body of soldiers, subjected them to severe discipline, and employed them on the most important occanions. It should be remarked that these Mamlukes wore a sort of yellow livery, yellow being a colour which distinguished all his household and which was affected by those who wished to appear attached to it. His successors in Egypt bought many of these slaves, who became at last the principal force of the state. They defended it at first with courage, but concluded by invading it themselves. We must not forget to say, for the history of manners, that these Mamelukes wore the arms of the Sultan, but that, to distinguish individuals, bars of crimson, roses, birds, griffins, and other figures were added to them upon the shield.”—Histoire de Saladin, tom. i.

§ Note (p), page 36, line 674. In sable folds (the hue of Islam,) bound.

Under the Abassides, black became the standard of the Caliphs, and has ever since continued the distinctive colour of Islam, or Mahommedan orthodoxy, in opposition to the green banner of the Fatimite Caliphs, and the white one of the Suffees “the inspired.” It has always been the custom for the principal Arabian or Moorish families to distinguish themselves and their followers by appropriate colours; of which many amusing exemplifications may be found in the History of the Quarrels of the Abencerrages and the Zegries, in the “Civil Wars of Granada.” Yellow was the peculiar badge of the house of Ayoub, the father of Saladine; and the Soldan, no less proud to display his orthodoxy than his personal power, always took care to blend the black and yellow in his standards. Omar, as the nephew of Saladine, bore a yellow plume, and a yellow banner. In his wars with the Christians, the Koran was always carried in state in the army of Saladine; a proof that he, no less than the Crusaders, considered himself engaged in a religious contest. ↩

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§ Note (q), page 37, line 684. Observes the battle, and on Мestос calls.

Some writers mention five governors of Acre; others only two. It appears certain that Karacous and Mestoc were the highest in authority. Aboul Hagia, and the other two whose names are mentioned, were probably no more than lieutenants. ↩

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§ Note (r), page 39, line 707. Unheeding Erard pass’d his brother by.

Erard, Count of Brienne, and Andrea his brother. This trait is mentioned by most of the writers on the Third Crusade as a striking instance of the effect of momentary fear on a mind naturally brave. Perhaps Erard did not even see his brother. ↩

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§ Note (s), page 42, line 769. Who own’d a kinsman in the noble Kurd.

Ismail commanded the Saracen reserve in this battle. Saladine belonged to a tribe of Kurds. ↩

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§ Note (t), page 43, line 806. But Lusignan his rival’s danger saw.

Perhaps there is no moment of Lusignan’s life in which he appears to so much advantage, as in this rescue of his most virulent enemy. Vinesauf, who omits no opportunity of expressing his dislike to Conrad, says “he was unworthy of his humanity.” It does not appear to have inspired him with gratitude. Lusignan would perhaps have been the victim of his generosity, but for the prompt assistance of his brother Geoffrey. ↩

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§ Note (u), page 44, line 808. He call’d for aid, th’ illustrious Glanville came.

Ranulph de Glanville is named among the Norman Knights, and it is therefore probable that he was a Norman by birth as well as by descent. In his youth he was a distinguished warrior; he led the armies of Henry the Second more than once, and took the King of Scotland prisoner at Northallerton. He was afterwards Justiciary of England, and is reported to have been the author of the law-book which bears his name; the earliest which gives any coherent account of English laws, and perhaps the first treatise on jurisprudence which appeared after the dissolution of tho Roman empire; but Mr. Reeves (Hist. of English Law, vol. i. p. 121) seems to think it unlikely that in those days a great political character should have been also an author. He suggests the possibility that the work might bear his name, from having been composed under his patronage and superintendance. When Henry the Second died, Glanville, to avoid engaging in his old age under a new master, took the cross, and sailed to Palestine, where he seems to have arrived soon after the commencement of the siege of Acre, about two years previous to the battle in which he fell. ↩

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§ Note (w), page 44, line 826. Lulo, and Karacous, and Mestoc’s might.

Lulo was the commander of the marine of Egypt, but he fought on land in this battle. ↩

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§ Note, page 45, line 830. The heaven descended Oriflamme unfolds.

The Oriflamme, or sacred banner of France, was reported to have descended from heaven, in honour either of Clovis or Charlemagne, It was, according to Mailly, a simare banner of flame-coloured taffeta, without figures or embroidery, but with three deep indentures at the bottom; and suspended to a gilded lance. Hence was derived its compound name, the word flamme relating to the colour of the silk, and being also a name commonly given to banners of that form. Other writers have said that it was embossed with the golden lilies of France; but they have possibly confounded it with the royal standard, of which notice will be taken in a subsequent note. Mr. Southey, in his Joan of Arc, states that the Oriflamme was originally used only in wars against the infidels, and that in after years it became a signal that no quarter was to be given; he adds that when Philip (as reported by some historians) erected the Oriflamme at Crecy, Edward in return raised up his burning Dragon as the English signal for massacre.—The Oriflamme was in fact only the standard of the abbey of St. Denis, and borne in its wars by the Counts of Vexin, as Avoués or secular champions of the abbey, till Philip the First united the Vexin to the Crown, when this banner being in high reputation, he gave it place before even his own standard; the taste of the age enveloped its history in fable, and it was believed to ensure victory. The fallacy was at length proved, and the Kings of France found it expedient to forget it, or to feign that it had been reclaimed by Heaven under Charles the Seventh. Philip Augustus, previous to his embarkation for the Crusade, received the Oriflamme, and the bourdon, or pilgrim’s staff, with great solemnity in the church of St. Denis.

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§ Note (x), page 48, line 908. And the glad seas feel lighten’d of their weight.

In ages when the ocean has become the readiest means of communication between distant regions, it is hardly possible for us to conceive adequately the terrors of such an expedition as the voyage from France or England to Jerusalem in the twelfth century, and it is probable, that nothing short of the almost incredible waste of human life which had been occasioned by the land journeys of the pilgrims, would have prompted the hazardous enterprize. In the time of Magnus the third of Norway, Skopte Augmundson, allied to the Royal Family, had warm discussions with the king about the succession of an estate, and not obtaining his demands, left the court. In 1100 he equipped five vessels for the East, and took with him his three sons: but they all died before they reached Palestine. He was however the first Scandinavian who had passed the straits. The ardour of crusading was kindled. Sigurd, one of the sons of Magnus, embarked from Norway with sixty vessels; was well received on his way by Henry the first of England; took the fort of Cintra in Lusitania from the Saracens, beat them next at Lisbon and Alcazar; twice fought their piratical fleet, passed the straits, and in the Isle Formentera attacked the cave of some infidel pirates. It was overhung by a rock, which the Norwegians mounted, and crushed them with stones; then lighted wood before its mouth, and almost stifled the brigands, who made a desperate sally, but in vain; they were all destroyed. Sigurd gained a great booty, and received the solemn thanks of Yvica and Formentera for their deliverance. He was afterwards kindly received by Roger the Second of Sicily, and in 1110 landed at Ascalon, whence he made the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, and assisted at the siege of Sidon, The voyage had occupied more than two years, and this expediton, which has been strangely neglected by historians, was considered as one of the most remarkable of those which occurred during the Crusades. But it was only the nations of the Baltic and Adriatic who possessed any share of maritime spirit or power. In the days of Charlemagne, France had something like a navy, but it declined under his feeble successors, and was annihilated after the usurpation of Hugues Capet. England was not better provided. The Saxons had lost all the naval pride of their ancestors, and the Normen, or Normans, whose Danish forefathers had been the scourge of Britain, after their conquest of England, bounded their voyages to the passage of the channel. Genoa, Pisa, Venice, and the Saracens of Barcelona, engrossed the whole commerce of Europe, and Philip Augustus and Richard were alike compelled to hire from the Genoese the vessels which conveyed them to Palestine. Nor were these vessels the floating castles of modern England. Closely resembling the Liburnian galleys of the Romans, they trusted more to oars than sails. The compass was not then in use, and every nautical art imperfect and ill understood. The relation which Hoveden and others have given of the voyage of Richard, proves how completely the pilots stuck to the shore, and how much they feared the element which they pretended to govern. Even in the thirteenth century it was rare for a British ship to be seen in the Mediterranean. — Catteau Calleville, Révolutions de la Norvège. — Mailly, &. ↩

Book II

§ Note (a), page 54, line 30. And Berengaria, his affianced bride.

Vinesauf speaks of the vessel which contained the Queens as being light and fragile. ↩

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§ Note (b), page 58, line 116. Though stripes and slavery be the stranger’s doom.

All those frightful tales of cruelty to the unhappy wanderer, which now appear almost as dreams of imagination, seem to have been realized in Russia during the middle ages. That country was then sunk in the abyss of slavery and ignorance—knowledge was forbidden, and even the recent introduction of an imperfect Christianity had not ameliorated the condition of the people. The unfortunate pilgrim who was shipwrecked, or led by any accident to that inhospitable shоге, became a slave, and the attempt to return to his own country was punished with death. — Mailly, &c. ↩

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§ Note (c), page 59, line 141. Methinks Byzantium’s exiled Lords return.

Cyprus was at this period under the dominion of Isaac Comnenus, nephew to Manuel Comnenus, the last of that house who filled the throne of Constantinople. In the disorders which followed on the usurpation of the imperial dignity by the infamous Andronicus, Isaac fled to Cyprus, and forging letters from the new emperor, and obtaining the assistance of the fleet, sent by William King of Sicily to the Crusades, he was acknowledged as governor of that island. But he soon threw off his feigned allegiance, and usurped the imperial title. ↩

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§ Note (d), page 59, line 148. Was still a haven to the tempest tost.

“Henry sо far abolished the barbarous and absurd practice of confiscating ships which had been wrecked on the coast, that he ordained, that if one man or animal were alive in the ship, that the vessel and goods should be restored to its owners.” — Hume, Henry II.

Fuller commends Richard for confnming and extending these laws. The rules which he enacted for the maintenance of order on board his fleet, though strongly marked with the character of the times, seem to have been dictated by good policy. Richard has also had the credit of a set of regulations compiled in France under St. Louis, and chiefly borrowed from the “Consolato del Mare,” or earliest maritime code of the middle ages, which was promulgated at Barcelona in the beginning ot the thirteenth century, and being acceded to by Philip Augustus and the Count of Provence, became binding in the Mediterranean, Mr. Hallam says, that these regulations were called the “Laws of Oleron,” from an idle story that they were enacted by Richard I, while his fleet lay at anchor in that island on its voyage to the Holy Land. But it is unlikely that another nation should give an English Sovereign the credit of any improvement which it might itself have disputed, and I think it probable that the “Laws of Oleron” originated with Richard, though they may have been first collected and consolidated under St. Louis. The time of Richard was then too recent, for a forgery to have derived any advantage from the supposed antiquity. ↩

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§ Note (e), page 61, line 186. They lanced their veins, and drank the mingled gore.

Vinesauf, after having observed that Cyprus, which had formerly been a source of wealth of Palestine, now became its enemy, adds, in speaking of Isaac, “Saladino dicebatur familiaris, et mutuum singuli hausisse cruorem, in signum et testimonium initæ invicem confæderationis, tanquam ex commixtione sanguinis exterius revera fierent consanguinei.” The story is probably fabulous, but this superstitious and revolting rite of friendship does not yet seem to be totally obsolete among the Greeks. ↩

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§ Note (f), page 69, line 200. As guests we enter’d, but as captives staid.

This account is principally taken from Vinesauf. ↩

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§ Note (g), page 63, line 234. Or life or freedom may be theirs no more.

It appears to have been a custom with Isaac to rob and imprison strangers, but the rank and power of the guests whom he was now incensing should have told him that humanity was prudence. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 68, line 341. A boat puts off—’tis Pembroke comes at last.

The name of the clerk was Hugo del Mare, the anecdote is from Vinesauf. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 69, line 349. Reft of his ears, will scarce offend again.

It is a great proof of the respect in which Richard held the laws of honour and of nations, that notwithstanding his impetuous character, and the distressed state of his vessels, he should have waited so long for the return of his ambassadors, whom Isaac had the temerity to dismiss with insult. The incident of the Seneschal is from the metrical romance of “Cœur de Lion,” in which the Emperor orders his nose to be cut off, and the reader is gravely informed that his face was spoiled in consequence. The story accords sufficiently with the historical character of the Usurper, and is likewise countenanced by a passage in Hoveden, which has been already noticed by Mr. Ellis. ↩

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§ Note, page 70, line 376. ’Tis Turnham’s well known banner shines on high.

Sir Stephen Turnham, the King’s Marshal and Treasurer. ↩

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§ Note (l), page 70, line 377. One Bosco seized, for knighthood scorn’d not then.

William de Bosco, a Norman. See Vinesauf. ↩

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§ Note, page 71, line 399. The gallant Robert, heir of Grosvenor’s line.

Sir Robert le Grosvenor distinguished himself at Messina and at Cyprus, as well as in the subsequent events of the Crusades.

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§ Note (m), page 75, line 490. To bid the senseless blossoms whisper love.

The women of Cyprus are said to be skilful in the language of flowers, and to be remarkable for their attachment to them as an ornament, in preference to any other; notwithstanding that the island abounds in mineral wealth, and that the Paphian diamonds are exported to many nations of the Levant, who value them more highly. ↩

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§ Note (n), page 80, line 603. The Persian tyrant’s doom, to starve on gold.

The Persian monarch Khosroes, having an idea of causing his son Mardasan to be crowned as his successor, his eldest born Siroes, jealous of this preference, followed the example which Khosroes had set him in rebelling against his own father, and shut him up in a place called the Tower of Darkness, which he had built as the repository of his treasures. Gold and precious stones were heaped around him, and when he asked for food, be was bidden to feast on that wealth of which be had been so insatiable: and thus grief and hunger terminated the existence of a prince, whose reign had been among the most glorious in the Persian annals. ↩

Book III

§ Note (a), page 87, line 92. From Tancred forced her freedom and her dower.

The author must here beg pardon of all who may be interested in the fame of William the Second of Sicily, for having, to suit her story, bestowed upon that monarch a less amiable character than history assigns to him; in short, for having arrayed him rather in his grandfather’s colours than his own; though the appellations of the Bad and the Good are neither of them perfectly consistent with historical truth. At the death of William, Sicily became a scene of confusion. Constantia, daughter of Roger, the father of William, and married by the ambitious policy of Frederic Barbarossa to his second son Henry, afterwards emperor, was the legitimate heiress. But Tancred, the bastard offspnng of William, with the aid of a strong party in the island, which could ill brook the idea of a foreign master, or a female reign, usurped the sovereignty, and threw Matilda the widow of William into prison.Richardarrived shortly after at Messina, wher Tancred found it prudent to set her at liberty, and to compromise the claims which Richard made upon him for her dower, and for the wealth which William had bequeathed to Henry the Second of England, by the payment of twenty thousand ounces of gold as a compensation for the dower, twenty thousand ounces for the legacies, and by agreeing to equip ten galleys and six palanders or horse transports, for the use of the Crusaders. — Hoveden, Mills, &c. ↩

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§ Note (b), page 87, line 100. To England’s Primate gave the Cyprian crown.

Matthew Paris gives a particular account of the ceremonies of King Richard’s Coronation in England; and аs the forms of this august festival have lately been so much an object of public interest, I perhaps cannot do better than transcribe Dr. Milner’s translation of, and remarks upon the passage, from his letter in “Carter’s Specimens of Ancient Sculpture and Painting.” “As we have in Matthew Paris, an account of the dress in which Henry the Second was buried, so have we of that in which Richard the First was crowned. Having described the ornaments, and mode of procession of the assistants, the monk of St. Alban’s goes on; ‘They then stripped him of all his clothes except his breeches and his shirt, which was unsewed between the shoulders, for the convenience of anointing; being thin-shod with sandals worked with gold, the Archbishop Baldwin anointed him King, upon the head, between the shoulders, and upon the right arm, with prayers appointed for this purpose. Having then laid a blessed linen cloth upon his head, he placed the bonnet thereon. Having then clad him with the royal robes, together with the tunic and dalmatic, the Archbishop gave him the sword to subdue the enemies of the Church, which being done, two Counts put on his spurs, and having then received his mantle, he was conjured by the Archbishop, on the part of God, not to accept of the royalty unless he intended to keep his oath. Then taking the crown from the altar, he delivered it to the Archbishop, who placed it on the King’s head; he at the same time received the sceptre into his right hand, and the royal wand into his left. In this account I shall only notice the following particulars, namely, that the royal robes consisted partly of ecclesiastical ornaments, namely, the tunic and dalmatic, which are the principal dresses of deacons and subdeacons; becondly, that the spurs, which are the emblems of knighthood, were fixed on, not by the Archbishop, but by secular Barons; and lastly, that the King first took his crown into his own hands, and so delivered it to the Archbishop, to signify that he did not hold his temporal power of the Church. This circumstance was of the utmost importance, at a time when the Church had recently forbidden Bishops and Abbots to receive investiture from temporal princes, by the pastoral staff and ring, lest it should be inferred that temporal authority was held of the Crown.’”

Dr. Milner dismisses the subject with the mention of a few of Richard’s exploits, and speaks of his valour and magnanimity with admiration as warm as they elicited from Mr. Gibbon. ↩

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§ Note (c), page 89, line 136. What knights in tilting or Castilles excel.

A tournament usually lasted several days, and the exhibition of each day was different. As the tilt and the mêlée answered to the single combat and the battle, so did the Castilles to the assault of a castle. The attack was generally made with violence, and was often attended with bloodshed. In 1546 the Court of France passed the winter at La Roche Guiоп, and amused itself with the construction of Castilles, which were bombarded with snow balls. The weapon may appeal harmless enough, yet these Castuiles cost the life of the Duke D’Enghien. See M. de St. Palaye sur l’Ancienne Chevalerie. — Some idea of this martial spoit may perhaps be formed from the attack on the Castle of Beauty, at Camacho’s wedding, described in Don Quixote. ↩

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§ Note (d), page 89, line 144. The martial pomp, the blaze of gems and gold.

The same pride which in the Greek empire reserved the purple for members of the imperial family, extended itself to the west, where scarlet was appropriated to knighthood. To this circumstance many allusions are made in Don Quixote, particularly when a scarlet mantle is thrown over him, on his arrival at the Duke’s castle. Our forefathers were also much attached to costly furs, with which they bound or lined the mantle, as may be still seen in the state robes of our nobility. The favourite furs were the royal ermine, the miniver, the sable, the gris, and the vair, or grey squirrel. The knights sometimes wore surcoats of vair or other furs, whence they have been introduced in many families as the held of their armorial bearings. — St. Palaye, &c. ↩

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§ Note (e), page 90, line 148. The swan, the pheasant, all that swim or soar.

The swan was one of those royal birds which were reserved for the state banquets of our chivalrous progenitors. Modern England is apt to think its flesh somewhat coarse and tough, and I believe that Norwich is the only town which retains so much of knightly manners as to have this bird regularly bred and fattened for its civic feasts, where its presence is indispensable. ↩

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§ Note (f), page 90, line 160. Pressed from the golden grapes of Cyprian vines.

The Cyprus wines have long been celebrated. I have already mentioned the Commanderia, which is esteemed the best. It is principally made near Paphos, is sweet and syrupy, and may be kept open without spoiling. ↩

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§ Note (g), page 90, line 161. Clairette in fuming beakers, and the juice.

Metheglin, mead, or hydromel, though much fallen from the high repute in which it was held by our Saxon ancestors (who could devise no greater delight for the souls of departed heroes, than to quaff this sparkling liquor from the skulls of their enemies), is still too well known to need explanation. Pigment, hypocras, and clairette seem to have been mixtures of wine with honey and spices. The hypocras was the most esteemed. The Clairette is said to have been sometimes served warm: perhaps, if we allow the substitution of honey for the modern luxury of sugar, which the Crusades had then but partially rendered known, the familiar names of mulled wine and negus may give a tolerable idea of these favourite beverages. Vinesauf speaks in high terms of the general magnificence of Richard’s bridal feast. Nothing was to be seen but vessels of gold and silver, enriched with precious stones. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 91, line 174. And each fantastic interlude between.

It was the custom at these state feasts to remain many hours at table, and the intervals between the several courses were beguiled by various “interludes,” or theatrical representations, which took place on the very table round which the guests were seated. The personages which figured in these interludes were generally allegorical, and contrived to flatter the principal guests. The machinery was probably very inferior to that now used in pantomime, and the astonishment of the historian has undoubtedly not taken from its effect, yet it often raises an idea of more ingenuity than we are apt to expect from so rude an age, A more particular account of one of these interludes will be given in the note to the Vow of the Peacock. In the History of the Civil Wars of Granada the strange devices which the knights exhibit on their entry to the tournament held by Abenamar, and the wonderful transformations which occur, are so much in the style of these interludes, as to leave little doubt that the latter must have been of oriental origin. — St. Palaye, &c. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 94, line 233. Chose for her home the court of high Navarre.

The courts and castles were excellent schools of courtesy, of politeness, and virtue, not only for the pages and squires, but also for young ladies or damsels. They were early instructed in those accomplishments which accorded with the manners of the age; were taught to receive with politeness the knights who arrived at the castle; to disarm them, to give them fresh clothes, serve them at table, and even attend to their wounds. But perhaps it would be difficult to convey a better idea of these feudal customs than is to be found in many of the speeches of that mirror of chivalry, the valiant knight of La Mancha. It was usual for the inferior knights to send their daughters for education to the castles of their feudal lord; but any lady of distinguished rank, beauty, and merit was solicited even by those whose lands lay at a distance, to accord to their children the advantages which they would derive from her instruction and example. — St. Palaye, Ellis, &c. ↩

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§ Note (k), page 95, line 255. That touch’d with tuneful skill the mandoline.

The mandoline is a sort of guitar with only one string, and the skill of the musician is shewn in causing it to produce every variety of tone. The mandoline was a very favourite instrument with the antient Spaniards, and particularly employed in serenading. ↩

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§ Note (l), page 99, line 362. Of stones and fire assail her haughty towers.

Richard caused many warlike engines tobe made during his stay in Cyprus. To the largest of these the romance gives the name of Robynette. ↩

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§ Note (m), page 101, line 398. In loflier numbers breathed Tyrtæan fire.

Bertrand de Born was one of the most extraordinary characters of his day, and Millot, (Hist. Littéraire des Troubadours), remarks on the manner in which he has been passed over, both by literary and political historians. He was Viscount of Hautefort, in Perigueux, and began his career by depriving his brother of his share of inheritance. The unhappy Constantine obtained the support of the Count of Perigord, and Talleyrand Lord of Montagnac (ancestor to that Talleyrand, who held so distinguished a place in the cabinet of Napoleon), while Richard of England, then only Count of Poitou, and the Viscount of Limoges, suspended their own quarrels to embrace the cause of the injured. On the other side, Bertrand was supported by the Viscounts of Ventadour, Segur, Gordou, Gévaudan, Tartas, and Turenne. The Counts of Foix, Angoulême, and Armagnac; the Lords of Puiguillen, Clarensac, Gragnel and St. Astier, great Barons, of Perigord, and, to crown the whole, the Prince Henry, elder brother of Richard, was to take the command. Many of these names are as uncouth as if they had been borrowed from the Tartars, and have little interest to an English ear, but their number shews the manner in which the fiery Bertrand always contrived to engage in his own quarrels all the princes who were within the reach of his friendship or his reproaches. As violent in love as in war, his impetuous passions exhaled themselves on every occasion in songs, which have more of the strength than the sweetness of poetry. By these he animated his soldiers, he encouraged his allies, he irritated his enemies, he sustained his own hopes; and, when the flame of war was extinguished, by these he had power to rekindle it. It would be useless to follow Bertrand through the story of his life, or rather of his wars, but some farther particulars will be given in another part of the poem. Suffice it to say, that Richard, by negotiation, contrived to avoid an engagement with his brother, and that Bertrand, after many alternations of friendship and hatred, finished by becoming the implacable enemy of the Lion-hearted King. ↩

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§ Note (n), page 102, line 412. Since by his valour in Messina’s fray.

During the residence of the English and French Monarchs at Messina, many affrays took place between the former and the natives; in one of these the English being victorious, Richard’s standard was planted on the walls of the Town, in a spot which Philip considered as a part of his own quarters—Philip highly resented this insult, (the more that he was fond of displaying his feudal suzerainty) and insisted that the standard should be taken down; Richard obeyed and peace was restored. Vinesauf, however, says, that Richard would not remove his own standard but consented that the banner of the French King should be hoisted by its side. ↩

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§ Note (о), page 103, line 444. Placed on a golden dish of rare device.

Of all the “noble birds,” the peacock and the pheasant enjoyed the highest rank. They appeared only at the most splendid feasts, they were dressed with the richest spices, decorated with gold, and jewels, and borne to the table by the most distinguished ladies. To carve the peacock or the pheasant, was also one of the proud privileges of the bravest cavalier, and he to whom it was offered, was obliged in courtesy to protest his own unworthiness, and not to accept the office but upon “great persuasion.” The vow of the peacock is, perhaps one of the most romantic features of chivalry. The lady bore the honoured bird, which was always adorned with its gayest plumage, to every knight in succession, beginning with him who was first in valour and rank, and each knight was expected to signalize his courage and his love by some vow, made “before the peacock and the ladies.” When this ceremony was completed, the peacock was borne back to the table, and placed before the chosen knight, who drawing his sword, began to carve it with great ceremony, and it was expected that he should so divide it, as to give a morsel to each guest, however great might be the number. To illustrate this subject, and that of the interludes already mentioned, I will abridge a part of the account given by M. de St. Palaye of the feast held at Lille, in 1453, at the court of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, on account of the crusade against the Turks, who had just reconquered Constantinople: “At last the festal day arrived. If the magnificence of the Prince was admired in the number and abundance of the courses, it shone still more in the spectacles then known by the name of “Entremets.” Divers decorations, machines, figures of men and uncommon animals, trees, mountains, rivers, even a sea covered with ships, appeared in the hall. All these objects, intermixed with men, and birds and other living animals, were in motion in the hall or on the table, and represented a sort of allegorical ballet. It is difficult to suppose what must have been the size of this apartment, which contained a table so spacious, besides the multitude of guests and spectators. All at once a giant appeared, armed like a Saracen of Grenada. He conducted an elephant, who bore a castle, in which was a distressed dame clothed in black like a nun. In vain she requested the giant to stop: he led her forward to the table of the Duke, and there the captive lady, who was intended to represent Religion, recited a long complaint of the evils which she suffered from the Saracens, and the tardiness of those who ought to deliver her. Toison D’Or, King at Arms of the Order of the Fleece, then advanced, preceded by a long file of pursuivants, with a living pheasant on his finger, adorned with a collar of gold and gems, and presented to the Duke two damsels, of which one was Violante, bis illegitimate daughter, and the other Isabeau of Neufchatel, daughter to the Lord of Montague; each lady being accompanied by a Knight of the Golden Fleece. Then the King at Arms offered the bird to the Duke, in the name of the ladies, who recommended themselves to the protection of their Sovereign, “to the end that the antient customs might be observed, according to which at feasts and other noble assemblies, a peacock or other noble bird was presented to the princes and lords, that they might make vows in behalf of the dames and damsels who besought their assistance.” The Duke replied, “I vow first, to God my Creator, and to the most glorious Virgin, and after them to the pheasant and the ladies,” to carry the war among the infidels, &c. &c. The signal was followed by all his court: each knight vowed to distinguish his courage against the Turks by some singular exploit; and imposed upon himself some arbitrary penance. Some would not sleep on a bed, others would not eat off a table-cloth, some would abstain from meat or wine on certain days, some would not wear a particular piece of armour, or would wear it day and night; some clothed themselves in sackcloth; in fact, the admirable ridicule of Cervantes was but the echo of these vows, which we that live in soberer days are apt to believe only the inventions of romance writers. The vows finished with a new spectacle. A lady clothed in white, like a novice, and bearing her name of Grâce Dieu in golden letters on her shoulder, led in twelve damsels, who represented the Virtues, which were to accompany the Crusaders. Each bore her name also embroidered in gold, and recited a few verses. These twelve ladies were the knightly virtues of Faith, Charity, Justice, Reason, Prudence, Temperance, Fortitude, Truth, Generosity, Diligence, Hope, and Valour, Et toutes enfin commencèrent à danser en guise de mommeries, et à faire bonne chère pour remplir et rachever plus joyeusement la fête.” One of the most singular of these fantastic scenes is the Vow of the Heron, which forms the subject of an ancient poem, printed also by St. Palaye. The Count D’Artois being banished from France, took refuge in London. One day his falcon caught a heron. The Count was at first indignant at so vile a capture, but afterwards gave orders to his “officiers de la bouche” to pluck and dress it. At night, when Edward the Third was at supper with his nobles, his Queen and her damsels, he entered, attended by minstrels and two noble ladies, bearing the heron between two silver plates, and advancing with great state to Edward, presented to him this most cowardly of birds (which is said even to fear its own shadow), as the reward of his indifference for a crown which he allowed to remain in the hands of his rival. Stung with this taunt, the enraged King swore that the year should not pass before Philip should see him in France, bearing fire and sword, to avenge this affront, were the French army ten times greater than his own. The Count D’Artois then went round to the nobles, and all hastened to bind themselves by some wild condition. The gallant Sir Walter Manny, whose ancestor accompanied Richard to the third crusade, engaged to take a certain town defended by Godemar du Fay. The Earl of Salisbury declared, in honour of the lady of his heart (the daughter of the Count D’Erby), that he would not uncover his right eye during the war. It is impossible to read the vow made by Queen Philippa without shuddering, for she called heaven to witness that she would destroy herself and her unborn infant, if the period of its birth should arrive before her husband had taken her across the seas, in acquittal of her oath. Edward was filled with horror at her words, and forbade the vows to be continued. The heron was cut up and eaten. Froissart mentions, that at the battle of Poitiers there were many young knights who had one eye covered with cloth, and that they had sworn to their ladies not to restore it to its use till they had signalized their prowess in France. But most of these conceits were the refinements of a later age of chivalry than that in which the poem is placed. ↩

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§ Note (p), page 105, line 481. Next sate D’Arselles, and high St. Valery’s heir.

Louis D’Arselles and Bernard de St. Valery, two noble Normans, who are mentioned in the annals of that country among the “Preux Chevaliers” of the third crusade. ↩

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§ Note (q), page 105, line 482. And stout St. John, and Arnulph of St. Clair.

Roger de St. John, descended from the family of Ports, Lords of Basing, in Southampton, from the time of the Conquest, and maternally from William de St. John, of St. John, near Rouen, who came to England with William the Conqueror, as grand-master of the artillery, and supervisor of the waggons and carriages; whence the horses’ hemes, or collar, was borne as his cognizance. One of his descendants was second wife of Bernard de St. Valery, Lord of Ambroseden, in Oxfordshire, and who took his name from the castle and town of St. Valery, in France, whence the Conqueror sailed to England. This Bernard was, I believe, the grandfather of the Bernard already mentioned. ↩

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§ Note (r), page 105, line 482. And stout St. John, and Arnulph of St. Clair.

Another Norman, who appears, in the history of that country, as one of its bravest crusaders. ↩

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§ Note (s), page 105, line 483. Harvey, whose axe was never rais’d in vain.

The Harveys, anciently Fitz-Harveys, descended from Robert Fitz-Harvey, younger son of Harvey Duke of Orleans, who came over to England with William. Harvey de Yuon, in the reign of Henry the Second, died on his way to the Holy Land. His son, Henry de Harvey, accompanied Richard. Of this family come the Earls of Bristol. ↩

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§ Note (t), page 105, line 484. And Nevile, skilful on the troubled main.

Henry de Nevile, descended from Gilbeit de Nevile, who was admiral to William the Conqueror. Henry died without issue, but his sister, Isabel, was the maternal ancestor of the Earls of Abergavenny, who thence bear the name of Nevile, and the motto Ne vile velis. ↩

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§ Note (u), page 105, line 485. Spencer, whose name was to his office due.

Hugh, fourth son of Thuistan le Despencer, steward to Henry the First. The office had been hereditary from the days of William the Conqueror, and gave its name to the family. The de was afterwards omitted by some branches, hence Spencer. ↩

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§ Note (x), page 105, line 486. And Ferrars’ valiant Earl, and Fortescue.

Henry, Earl of Ferrars, in Normandy, was rewarded by the Conqueror with the lands of Etingdon, in Warwickshire, which had belonged to the family of Sewell from the time of Edward the Confessor. Sewell, however, still held the manor under Count Ferrars, whom he acknowledged as his feudal lord; and one of his descendants married the heiress of the Norman Earls, and thus regained his ancient honours. A similar fortune attended the representatives of many of the dispossessed Saxons. ↩

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§ Note (y), page 105, line 489. Grosvenor, whose house held kindred with the Dane.

The ancestors of this family came from Denmark with Rollo, and settled in Normandy, where they took their name from the office of master of the royal buck-hounds. Gilbert le Grosvenor, who accompanied William to England, was nephew to Hugh Lupus, Count of Avranches, and first Earl of Chester, himself nephew to the Conqueror. The ample possessions of this family in Cheshire and the adjacent parts of Wales are well known. ↩

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§ Note (z), page 106, line 501. The brave De Vaux, in arms a mighty name. Ranulph, or Robert de Vallibus, corrupted into De Vaux, one of the ancestors of the family of Dacre: that Barony having originally belonged to the family of De Vaux, of whom three brothers settled in England after the Conquest. ↩

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§ Note (aa), page 106, line 502. And Roland, who from stout Belasius came.

Belasius (now Belasyse, Earls Fauconberg) was a Norman knight, who accompanied the Conqueror to England. I have ventured to substitute the family name of Roland for that of Robert, which belonged to his descendant under Richard the First. ↩

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§ Note (bb), page 107, line 522. With Dædalean art for beauty’s fairest flower.

Patric, Earl of Salisbury, being the King’s lieutenant in Acquitaine, was slain by Guy de Lusignan (afterwards King of Jerusalem), on his return from a pilgrimage to St. James, in Galicia, leaving Ela his sole daughter and heir, of whom, says Dugdale, it is reported, that being so great an inheritrix, one William Talbot, an Englishman and an eminent soldier, took on him the habit of a pilgrim, and went into Normandy, where wandering up and down for two months, he at length found her out. He then disguised himself as a harper, and being practised in mirth and jesting, became well accepted at the court where she resided. Here becoming acquainted with her, he after a while took her to England, where he presented her to King Richard, who received her courteously, and bestowed her in marriage on William Long Espee, one of his father’s sons by the Fair Rosamond, at the same time surrendering to William the Earldoms of Rosmar and Salisbury as her inheritance. Ela was descended from Walter de Eurus, Earl of Rosmar, who came to England with the Conqueror, and whose surname still lives in the noble house of Devereux. ↩

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§ Note (cc), page 107, line 426. And Curzon’s pride, the youthful Giratine.

Properly Robert or Richard, but Giraline is a family name. ↩

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§ Note (dd), page 108, line 533. And Harley, sprung from that victorious Thane.

The family of Harley is so ancient, that that of Harlai, one of the most eminent in France, is believed to be descended from it. One of this house, in 1013, commanded an army under King Ethelred, and defeated Swane, King of Denmark, near Pershore, thus saving the town. Sir William de Harley was distinguished under Godfrey of Bouillon, and was one of the fiist Knights of the Holy Sepulchre. He was buried in the Abbey of Pershore, where his tomb still remains, and was the only one which escaped in the time of Henry the Eighth. ↩

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§ Note (ее), page 108, line 537. The noble Harcourt next, in whom combine.

The house of Harcourt is descended from Bernard, of the blood royal of Saxony, who being born in Denmark, was surnamed the Dane. He was chief counsellor to Rollo, and second in command in his descent on Normandy in 876. He was afterwards minister to William Longsword, Rollo’s son and successor, and guardian to his child during his minority. He married a lady of the royal family of Burgundy; from his eldest son descended the ancient Earls of Leicester, while the offspring of the second took the name of Harcourt, and were renowned both in England and France. The Sir Robert Harcourt mentioned in the poem was the son of Ivo, and inherited his father’s English possessions, leaving those in Normandy as the portion of his brothers, but it was properly his descendant William, the same that took so distinguished a part in the siege of Damietta in 1218, that acquired the surname of the Englishman. The Harcourts seem to have been particularly stricken with the mania of crusading, and there is scarcely a single expedition to the Holy Land of any importance, in which they were not conspicuous. ↩

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§ Note (ff), page 108, line 542. The conquer‘d spoils, and fame of Егin’s war.

William Marshall, Earl of Pembroke, Strigulph Strongbow, Earl of Clare, and Robert Fitz-Harding, Lord of Berkeley castle, were the three warriors most distinguished in the conquest of Ireland under Henry the Second. The Fitz-Hardings were descended from the Kings of Denmark, and came to England with the Conqueror. In 1168 Robert Fitz-Harding entertained, at Bristol, Dermot Mac Murrough, King of Leinster, with a company of sixty followers, when he came to England to solicit aid from Henry: which event brought on the war with Ireland. ↩

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§ Note (gg), page 108, line 546. The silver stags upon an azure bend.

Lydulph, of Audleigh in Staffordshire, eldest son of Adam de Audley, bore his father’s arms, Gules, a fret Or, and was progenitor of the Lords Audley. Adam, the second son, bore the same arms, with a label of three points Azure in chief, for difference. It was his son, William de Audley, who becoming possessed of the manor of Stanley in Staffordshire (so called from its rough and stony soil), took the surname of Stanley. The arms of this branch (now Earls of Derby) are, on a bend Azure, three stags heads Argent. ↩

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§ Note (hh), page 110, line 579. His name renow’nd on earth, his “Hope in Heaven.”

The name of Percy comes from a town in Lower Normandy, near to Villedieu, and not, as some have supposed, from the accident of piercing a King of Scotland’s eye, at the siege of Alnwick Castle: for though that accident is said to have befallen Malcolm the Third (who was contemporary with William Rufus), the officer that slew him was named Hammond, and had no connexion with the Percy family, who did not possess lands in Northumberland till the time of Edward the Second. Its progenitor was Mainfred, a Danish chieftain, who made irruptions on France prior to the expedition of Rollo. Two of his descendants, William and Serlo, assisted William of Normandy in his conquest of England. William was much beloved by the Monarch, and obtained large grants of land in Hampshire and Lincolnshire. He was also in habits of close friendship with Hugh Lupus, who bestowed on him the lordship of Whitby, where he restored or rather founded the abbey of St. Hilda. His brother Serlo became the first Prior, and his nephew William, who was at Serlo’s death chosen Abbot, was of such high renown for sanctity, as to be afterwards canonized. This first Lord William de Percy was surnamed Alsgernons (aux Moustaches); he went with Duke Robert and other Normans to Palestine in 1096, and died at Mount Joy, so named by the pilgrims who usually had the first view of the holy city from that eminence. Here his followers interred his body, but brought over his heart, according to the practice of those ages, to be deposited in Whitby Abbey. His wife was Emma de Port, for the Conqueror having bestowed on him Semar, near Scarborough, and other lands, “he wedded her that was very heir to them, in discharging of his conscience.” Emma outlived her husband, and was herself a benefactor to Whitby.

Their son, Alan, called the great Alan, was also so benificent to the Abbey, as to acquire the title of its second founder; but his warlike achievements are wrapped in oblivion. He had seven sons, and the eldest of these had four children, but they died early, and he and his brothers passed away and left no heir. Maud, the eldest daughter, had married William de Plesset, Earl of Warwick: but he also died childless in Palestine, and the only hope of succession remained with the youngest daughter Agnes. She married Josceline de Lovain, son of Geoffrey Barbatus, Duke of Nether Lorrain, Count of Brabant and Lovain, and brother to Adelicia, second wife of Henry the First of England. He took the name of Percy, but was permitted to retain his hereditary device, Or, a lion rampant, azure, which with a change of colour only, is still the arms of Brabant and Hainault. Josceline was of one of the noblest families in Europe, being descended from Charlemagne, and from the illustrious Duke Regnier, who was taken prisoner by Rollo the Dane.

Henry de Percy was the true representative of this illustrious line at the time of Richard’s Crusade; but to avoid confusion, from the endless repetition of the same familiar name, I have changed it to one frequent in the family annals. In 1234 his younger brother Richard had contrived to get possession both of lands and honours, and it was not till after a solemn trial before Henry the Third, that his nephew William (son of Henry de Percy) obtained justice. The motto alluded to in the text is, “Espérance en Dieu.” ↩

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§ Note (ii), page 110, line 593. His look appall’d, and death was in his blow.

The elder Percevais seem to have been remarkable at once for talent and cruelty. They are sprung from Robert, younger son of Eudes, sovereign Duke of Brittany; but were thence transplanted into Normandy, and at the time of the Conqueror possessed the castle of Yvery, with great estates and power, and the hereditary office of chief butler. Some of the family came to England with William; but Roger de Yvery, faithfully adhering to Robert, his eldest son, against William Rufus, was by the latter dispossessed of many of his lands, and particularly the castle of Yvery in Oxfordshire, which was bestowed on Guy de St. Valery, and was thenceforward called St. Valeria.

In the meantime the main stem of the family reigned at the castle of Yvery in Normandy, which was built by Albreda, wife of Ralph, Earl of Yvery and Baieux, who had more of the lioness than the dove in her composition, for when the castle was finished, she ordered the architect’s head to be struck off, that he might not build another like it; and afterwards, attempting to retain possession of it against her own husband, was killed by him in the attempt. Their son Ascelin (sometimes called Gouel de Perceval) inherited all his mother’s ferocity, and acquired the surname of Lupus from his violent character. He was a great warrior, and commanded the Norman forces at Mantes, where William the Conqueror received his death-wound. But one of the most remarkable features of Ascelin’s life, was his war with the Earl of Bretevil, on account of a woman which his (Ascelin’s) youngest brother had ravished. He defeated the Earl, took him prisoner, and confined him three months in the castle of Breherval, where he was treated with the utmost severity, and exposed at the upper windows of the fortress to the frost in the depth of winter, covered only by his shirt, which was previously dipped in water, and in this situation was he compelled to remain till it froze to his back. Nor could he escape ex ore Lupi, from the jaws of the wolf, till he agreed to give three thousand dreux pounds for his ransom: and, what must have been more galling than all the rest, to yield his only daughter in marriage to Ascelin. Nevertheless the war revived, till in three years the Earl was nearly ruined, but he found means to interest Philip King of France and Robert Duke of Normandy in his cause, and also the clergy, who were incensed against Asceline for the little reverence he had shewn them. In Lent, 1095, the Earl, with the forces which all these allies could raise, assisted by Robert de Belesme, a very expert officer, and an inveterate enemy to Ascelin, and by the engines which had lately been used at the siege of Jerusalem (they having been invented about that time by a famous engineer in the first crusade), attacked Asceline, in Breherval; but he defended it two months against them all, and at last made a treaty, by which he remained in possession of all his honours, only allowing the Earl of Bretevil to retain quietly his castle of Yvery, the suzerainty of which Duke Robert had bestowed on him, and which was one cause of quarrel. Ascelin not liking to pay to the Earl the homage he had formerly paid to the Duke.

The second son of Ascelin, William, surnamed Lupellus, or the little wolf, rebelled against Henry the First. After an unsuccessful battle, he was taken prisoner by a peasant, but bribed him with his arms to let him escape. The peasant shaved him in the manner of an Esquire, and carrying a staff in his hand he reached the Seine, where he was forced to give his shoes to the boatman for his passage, and so go barefoot home.

William took part with Matilda against Stephen. After his death the surname of Lupellus seems to have become general among his descendants.—Richard his fifth son continued the line, and being nearly related to Earl Strigulph whose mother was like his, a daughter of the Earl of Mellent, he accompanied him in his Irish expedition—and was with Richard in the Holy Land. I ought to apologize for the length of this note, but the history of this family seemed to me to present so good a view of the darker manners of the times, of the discourteous Barons against whom knight errantry was really useful, that I felt unwilling to curtail it.—Ascelin must certainly have been one of the greatest as well as one of the worst men of his time. ↩

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§ Note (kk), page 115, line 688. And wondering wisdom warbled from his tongue.

Pierre Vidal was one of those strange contrasts, so often met with in the history of the middle ages. The character of his muse was different, or he might perhaps bear a comparison with Alfieri, for while good sense and sound feeling reigned in his poetry, his life was marked by an eccentricity little short of madness. St. Palaye calls him the Don Quixote of Troubadours. The professed admirer of every beautiful woman, he believed himself equally the object of regard, and often boasted of imaginary favours. Having once indulged his vanity at the expense of a Provençal lady, her husband punished him by slitting his tongue. Hugues, the Lord of Baux, took compassion on him, and had him cured. He remained attached to the family, and soon became enamoured of Adelaide wife to Barrai de Baux, the head of the house. His whimsical passion was a source of great amusement to this lady and her husband; and the latter, far from being jealous of his extravagancies, gave him arms and habits like his own, and allowed him the freest access to his wife. Adelaide on her part pretended to return his love: but being soon disgusted with the presumption which her affected smiles inspired, she forced her husband to dismiss the unhappy minstrel, who while exhaling his sorrow in verses which are yet remarkable for their sweetness, sought consolation in war, and went with Cœur de Lion to Palestine.

The bravadoes in which he announced his prowess were not less extravagant than the complaints in which he breathed his love. “My enemies,” said he, “tremble at my name, and the earth shakes beneath my steps. All that oppose me I cut to pieces.”

It may well be believed that such a character was a source of great amusement to the young Knights who accompanied our Lion-hearted Monarch, and they alternately amused themselves with feeding and exposing his follies. During the King’s residence in Cyprus, they contrived to marry him to a lady, who appears to have been distantly related to some one of the families which had sate on the throne of Constantinople. They persuaded him that she was niece to the Emperor, and was to have the diadem transferred to her. No more was needful to heighten Vidal’s eccentricity to madness. He usurped the Imperial state and title, gave that of Empress to his wife, had a throne carried before him, and expended all his earnings in support of his Utopian dignity. Nay, so incurable was this fancy, that five and twenty years after, he succeeded in collecting a little troop as mad as himself, and made a crusade to Constantinople, in the hope of recovering his empire.

But perhaps the most ridiculous proof of his wildness, was that elicited by his passion for Louve de Penautier, a lady of Carcassonne. As her name signified a female wolf, he thought himself bound not only to assume in her honour the name of Loup, but to wear the wolf-skin also, and in this disguise to be hunted by his own dogs, whom he would not permit to be called off till he was at the point of death. The lady’s compassion prompted her to dress his wounds, but she laughed with her husband at his folly.

This folly, however, scarcely ever touches his writings, and the moment that the muse possessed his fancy, she seems to have inspired him with a discrimination and prudence, which it would have been well if he could have carried into the affairs of life. His tale of the Jongleur not only gives admirable lessons to the young Troubadour for his conduct in the world, but some hints by which his patrons might be benefited. He also composed a treatise on the government of the tongue, an invective against Philip Augustus for not redeeming the Holy Sepulchre; another against the King of Spain, for buying peace from the Moors instead of subduing them. He complains of the conduct of the priesthood, and the encouragement given to heresy by their bad lives. And, finally, he launches into invective against the Emperor Henry the Sixth, for detaining Richard in prison, against the faith of nations and the privileges of Crusaders. In short, his themes were various, and generally handled with power. ↩

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§ Note (ll), page 119, line 792. This zeal in age is fed with Christian blood.

One of the first exploits of Saladine was the overthrow of the Egyptian or Fatimite Caliph, who had his residence in Cairo, and was of course the determined enemy of the orthodox caliph, or Caliph of Bagdad. Saladine was through life remarkable for his strict adherence to the doctrines and observances of Islam; and though the Crusaders often forced his noble mind to respect individuals, his hatred of their religion seems to have been not less virulent than theirs for Mohammedanism. ↩

§ Note (mm), page 120, line 804. And Mosul’s lord was vassal of his hand.

Yemen, or Arabia Felix, was conquered for Saladine by his brother Touranschah, a man whose bloody and violent disposition formed a strong contrast to that of the Soldan. Saladine was long engaged in war with the Sultans of Mosul, whom after a violent contest he subdued. ↩

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§ Note (nn), page 120, line 806. My fatal reign, my sorrow, and my shame.

There is little temptation to enlarge on the melancholy picture presented by the last years of the kingdom of Jerusalem. Amalric was a brave soldier, and might have made his power respectable, but his avarice and inconsistency ruined his cause. The blind passion with which he sought to obtain the wealthy dominion of Egypt led him into long and useless wars, while at the same time he had the inconceivable folly to sell some of his strongest fortresses to the Saracens and the next moment to break the peace formed with them, if the slightest prospect of advantage was held out from another quarter. His son Baldwin the fourth was only thirteen when Amalric died, and was afflicted with leprosy. Raymond of Tripoli became Regent during his minority, but his reign from the first hour of its commencement was disturbed by the dissensions of his nobles. As Baldwin grew up to manhood he took the reins of government into his own hands and signalized his brief authority by the complete defeat of Saladine near Ascalon. But his spirit and activity gave way beneath a fresh attack of disease; an unworthy jealousy of the power and commanding character of Raymond led him to prefer Lusignan as Regent, and he soon after died, leaving the crown to Baldwin the Fifth, the infant son of Sybilla, and William of Montferrat. The events immediately subsequent have already been noticed in the First Book. ↩

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§ Note (oo), page 121, line 832. And at my feet down dropp’d Chatillon’s head.

The humanity of Saladine, and the cruelty of Richard Cœur de Lion, are phrases which must be familiar to many of my readers.—It is not my wish unduly to exalt the character of my hero, neither would I rob the Conqueror of Jerusalem of one well earned laurel. His conduct to the vanquished in the City deserves the highest praise, and is an instance of that generosity of which the history of the East offers so many striking examples, and which does not in those climes appear incompatible with acts of the greatest cruelty in the same individual. Rinaldo of Chatillon was the object of peculiar resentment to Saladine. Raised by the preference of Constantia, widow of Raymond of Poitiers, to the throne of Antioch, he was for many years the captive of Noureddin. When he regained his freedom, Bohemond, the son of Raymond, was old enough to govern his dominions, and Constantia was no more. Rinaldo married the widow of Humfrey of Thoron (father to the Thoron who appears in the poem) and thus became Lord of the impregnable fortresses of Carac, and Krak or Montroyal. From this latter place he ravaged the frontiers of Arabia, and when peace was concluded with Saladine, still continued his incursions. Saladine remonstrated to the King of Jerusalem, but Baldwin the Fourth had not power to punish or restrain his vassal. Rinaldo who had often plundered the caravans of Mecca and Medina, now conceived the bold project of penetrating even to those cities, and of pillaging the Caaba and the Tomb of the Prophet. Assisted by a band of Templars, he surprised the Egyptian merchants, who were conveying along the Red Sea, the treasures of India, and entered triumphant into countries which had never yet beheld the Christians. He reached the valley of Rabid, about ten leagues from Medina, where he was attacked by a Syrian army and defeated. Rinaldo and a few others escaped as by miracle to Krak. Part of the prisoners were executed as criminals, and we have the authority of the Arabian historians, Schahabeddin, Tabari, and Aboul-Feda, for stating that the rest were immolated at the same time with the victims sacrificed at the ceremony of the Grand Beiram. This horrible execution did not satisfy the vengeance of Saladine, and he invaded Syria, incessantly repeating the vow to kill Chatillon with his own hand. It was not, however, till the battle of Tiberias, that this daring warrior fell into the hands of the Soldan, when the circumstances of his death are faithfully given in the poem. The day after the battle witnessed a scene which was still less in accordance with the humanity ascribed to Saladine. He caused such of the Knights of the Temple and of St. John, as were among the prisoners, to be led before him, and declaring, that he “would deliver the earth from those two abominable races,” he permitted the emirs and doctors of the law, who surrounded him, to kill each a knight. Loaded with chains and incapable of resistance, these devoted warriors disputed with each other the honour of first receiving the crown of martyrdom, and many who had never belonged to the military orders, cried aloud, that they were Templars or Hospitallers, and gloried in partaking their fate. Saladine, seated on his throne, beheld and applauded the execution. ↩

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§ Note (pp), page 121, line 836. Compell’d at length to own the Soldan’s reign.

After the battle of Tiberias, in which Lusignan was taken prisoner, Jerusalem, under the orders of the veteran Baléan D’Ibelin, made a more resolute defence than could have been expected from its destitute condition; but was at last forced to surrender. The Latin historians remarked that the Crusaders had entered the Holy City on a Friday, at the very hour when their Saviour submitted to death to atone the crimes of man. The Saracens re-took the town also on a Friday, the Mahommedan day of religious observance, and, according to their belief, on the anniversary of the day when their prophet arose from Jerusalem on his miraculous journey to Heaven: but an eclipse of the sun, which took place at the moment the conditions of surrender were adjusting in the tent of Saladine, was regarded as an evil omen. ↩

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§ Note (qq), page 123, line 866. “And the twelfth moon” he said, “shall find him free.”

Saladine was touched by the grief of Sybilla, and promised that as soon as his power was established, he would restore her husband to liberty. He also felt for those who had lost their friends at Tiberias, and liberated such of their sons or husbands as were among his prisoners. Many of the Christians had abandoned all their wealth, to bear out on their shoulders their infirm friends or parents. Saladine rewarded their disinterestedness by liberal gifts, and permitted the Hospitallers to remain in Jerusalem to nurse the sick. ↩

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§ Note (rr), page 125, line 908. And Acre fall, and Palestine be free.

See Rastell’s Chronicle, Origin of the Garter. “Some do affirme that this order beganne firste by King Richard Cœur de Lyon, at the siege of the citie of Acre, where in his great necessytie there were but twentie-five knightes that firmlye and surelye abode by him, whene he caused them all to weare thongs of blue leythere aboute their legges, and afterwards they were called knights.” Sir Egerton Brydges, in his notice of the family of St. John, in Collins’s Peerage, says, “This Roger de St. John was with Richard the First at Acre, when that Monarch thought of this device. He tied a leathern thong, or garter, around the left leg of a certain number of his knights, to excite them to greater courage. This some think was the first occasion of the institution of the Order of the Garter.” It suited me better to place the investiture at Cyprus than at Acre. ↩

Book IV

§ Note (a), page 134, line 22. For want and thirst have keener stings than war.

Vinesauf speaks of the Bedouins or Bedeuvini, “horrible, darker than smoke, bearing the bow and quiver and the small round shield.” ↩

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§ Note (b), page 134, line 34. And Rome’s degenerate eagles learn’d to dread.

Some of the most splendid monarchs of Persia belonged to the Seljoukian dynasty, which expired in the year 1194. The kindred Sultan of Roum, whose capital was first at Nice, and afterwards at Iconium, rent many of its fairest provinces from the Greek empire, and maintained itself till 1308. It is from this branch of the Seljouc Turks that the Ottomans now upon the throne of Constantinople are descended. The Seljouc dynasties of Caramania, of Aleppo, and Damascus, were of shorter date. The last was that of Damascus, which city was given up to Noureddin by Ayoub, the father of Saladine, who was then Vizir to the last Seljouc prince, Modgireddin Abe. Ayoub had been under great obligations to Noureddin, and his brother, Shiracoush, was then in his service. The Sultan rewarded them both with liberality, and Ayoub received the government of the yielded town as the meed of his treachery. These two emirs were also endowed with the peculiar privilege of sitting in the presence of Noureddin, without waiting for permission. ↩

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§ Note (c), page 136, line 64. The placid Soldan fill’d his simple throne.

Luxury has been the common reproach of the east: yet it may be remarked, that its greatest conquerors, at least in modern days, have been distinguished by the simplicity and even austerity of their manners. Such were Noureddin and Saladine, Ghenghis Khan, and his descendant Tamerlane. ↩

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§ Note (d), page 136, line 71. And Aladin, whom youth’s warm hopes inspire.

From the many names which belong to these young princes, I have endeavoured to select those most capable of being moulded into English verse. The history of the Arabs (Universal History) relates, page 514, that Saladine, having alighted from his horse to take a more ceremonious leave of Kaisar Shah, son of Kilidge Arselan, Sultan of Iconium, and who had married a daughter of Malek Adel, Kaisar Shah in return held the stirrup and assisted the Soldan to remount, while Aladin arranged his clothes, on which a bystander observed, “O, son of Ayoub, you need not now care what death you die; a prince of the house of Seljouc has helped you on horseback, and a descendant of the Atabek Zenghi has adjusted your garments.” Seiffeddin, the father of Aladin, had been engaged in long and ruinous wars with the Sultan, and his friendship was never cordial. ↩

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§ Note (e), page 138, line 108. The labouring steers drag on the ponderous towers.

These towers were similar in nature to those employed by Godfrey at the siege of Jerusalem, and even in an age when we hear familiarly of the destructive powers of our modern artillery, there is something imposing in the account of such gigantic engines; these were higher than the walls of the city, and each was capable of containing five hundred men. They consisted of three stories: in the first story were the battering rams; in the second, the Balistæ and Catapults, which threw darts and stones to the distance of one hundred and twenty-five feet. The stones were from three hundred to four hundred pounds weight; they crushed the roofs of houses, overturned the machines of the enemy, and shook the walls: the third and last story contained one hundred warriors, who were armed with axes, maces, &c, and protected by a roof from the stones and fire which were hurled from the engines of the besieged. It was also provided with a pont levis, or flying bridge, which could be let down upon the walls. These moving castles were raised upon wheels, and covered with leather hardened in vinegar, to render them impenetrable to common flame, and to the ordinary Greek fire. After the earth had been levelled, and a part of the fosse filled up, they were rolled forward by means of levers. See Mailly, Marin, &c. ↩

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§ Note (f), page 138, line 121. To shivering want his own rih mantle gave.

The banners of France were three, the royal or personal standard of the King, the “Chape de St. Martin,” and the oriflamme. The royal standard was a square banner, or gonfalon, of a blue colour, and powdered with lilies of gold. This was usually entrusted to some vassal of valour and consequence, who was called the gonfalonier, a name in later years confined to him who bears the standard of the Holy See. At the battle of Bouvines, the standard of Philip Augustus was borne by Gallon de Montigny, who, when the King was unhorsed, gave notice of his danger by lowering it several times. The “Chape de St. Martin,” according to Le Gendre, was a banner of taffeta, on which the Saint was depicted, and which had acquired extraordinary virtues, from having been allowed to remain some time upon his tomb. Other writers assert that it was the mantle of the Saint, and some have pretended that it was worn by the Kings of France in battle. Others suppose it to have been the banner belonging to the Abbey of St. Martin of Tours, and others again contend that it was not a banner, but a coffer or portable pavilion, containing the relics of many saints, and among others those of St. Martin, which the Kings of France held in the highest veneration. Whichever of these opinions may rest on the best authority, the presence of the Chape de St. Martin was supposed to ensure victory, and its place in battle was immediately after the royal standard. The oriflamme has been already considered, but the dignity of bearing it was sought by the most renowned knights, and contested with almost as much eagerness as the principal command, at least if we may judge from the instance of Arnoul d’Andrenhem, who under Charles the Fifth resigned his office of Maréchal of France, that he might exercise that of Porte Oriflamme. The bearer, however, had no authority, except over the troop at the head of which he carried his banner; but that troop consisted of all which chivalry could boast, of most noble and most valiant:—added to which, the oriflamme was always in the van, either in march or in battle, consequently in the post of danger and honour; and when it was present, even the banner of the King became of small account, and was called only the royal pennon. Nothing can more decidedly mark the respect in which the oriflamme was held, than the oath administered to the bearer. “You swear and promise, on the precious body of Christ Jesus, here present, and on the bodies of Monseigneur St. Denis and his companions, here also, that you will loyally, in your own person, guard and govern the oriflamme of our Lord the King, also present, to the honour and profit of himself and his kingdom, and that you will not abandon it, neither for the fear of death nor for any other cause, but that you will in all things do your duty as beseems a good and loyal knight towards your Sovereign and liege Lord.” — See Mailly, vol. i. ↩

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§ Note (g), page 142, line 205. While Philip’s hand his keen francisque displayed.

The francia or francisque, a kind of battle-axe, from which the Franks are supposed to have derived their name, as the Saxons did from the se-ax, a similar weapon which they used in battle. Some modern authors assert that the axe and bipennis were solely used by the Danes. Perhaps a weapon of this sort was originally employed by all the barbarous tribes of northern Europe, but relinquished in the progress of civilization; and the Danes being the last of the northern invaders, might also be the last to abandon it. — Smith’s Antient Costume of England. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 144, line 257. He moves not, speaks not, lives to pain alone.

The general suffrage of mankind seems to have established Saladine as the greatest man of the age in which he lived; yet in the power of supporting any reverse of fortune, he shewed himself much inferior to his antagonist, Richard Cœur de Lion. Some historians have said that the English Monarch was never so great as in his dungeon of Trivallis; but the Sultan of Damascus, whether from mental weakness, or constitutional infirmity, seems to have been sunk into a deplorable state of despondency by every defeat. The picture in the poem goes not beyond that which is drawn by his annalists, and after the loss of Acre, we have the testimony of the learned Abdollatiph to that morbid state of mind, which would not admit even the presence of his sons. This great physician, after having acquired by travel a knowledge of the learning and antiquities of India and Damascus, was then on his road to Egypt, and felt it a point of duty to pay his respects to the Sultan en route: but the unhappy Monarch was in a state which precluded his admission. M. Michaud’s observations on the general character of Mahomedan courage are not inapplicable to this subject. “The reader may have remarked, in perusing this history, that the religion of Mahommed, all warlike as it is, does not inspire in its disciples that obstinate bravery, that perseverance under misfortune, that unbounded devotion, of which the history of the Crusades offers so many examples. The religion of the Musulmans requires the stimulus of victory to preserve its strength and violence. Trained in the blind doctrine of fatalism, they are accustomed to regard success or defeat as the decree of heaven. Victorious, they are full of courage and ardour; but when vanquished they allow themselves to be cast down, and feel no shame in yielding to an enemy, whom they regard as the instrument of destiny. Their courage is rarely excited by the desire of acquiring renown, and even in the moments of their military ardour, it is rather the fear of punishment than the thirst of glory that detains them in the field. The power to brave their foes must be derived from a chief whom they dread, and despotism appears necessary to their valour,” — Vol. ii. p. 213. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 145, line 266. Oh! had I Ali’s strength, or Kaled’s sword.

The valour of Kaied and Ali is conspicuous in the wars of the Prophet. The strength of Ah, who wrenched off one of the gates of Bosra, and used it for a shield, appears beyond belief, and the exploits by which Kaled acquired the surname of “Seif-Allah,” or the “Sword of God,” are not less wonderful. Ali was vindictive and ambitious, and his struggles for the Caliphate led to that great schism, which has separated Persia from the standard of Mahomedan orthodoxy. Kaled seems to have been without ambition, ferocious, and delighting in battle for its own sake. The enthusiastic character and marvellous achievements of the companions and successors of the Prophet, gives to Mr. Gibbon’s account of the origin of Mahomedanism all the interest of romance. ↩

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§ Note, (k), page 147, line 322. His Genii workmen brought to Giamschid.

The Gem of Giamschid, frequently alluded to by Oriental writers, is by many supposed to be a carbuncle, and this idea is adopted by the author of Vathek; but, according to D’Herbelot, the Gem of Giamschid was a large cup or vase, made of a single turquoise, which was found by the Genii his subjects, when digging the foundations of Istakar. This vase has long been lost. Giamschid was the son of Caiomurs, the first of the Preadamite Sultans, who reigned over the Genii before the creation of man. He is said to have been the inventor of wine, which, from its intoxicating qualities, he named “the charming poison.” ↩

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§ Note, (l), page 149, line 350. And vanish’d in a pyramid of light.

The idea of this incident is taken from a passage in the Histoire de Saladine, which says that many fruitless attempts had been made by the besieged to set fire to the wooden castles of the besiegers, or to overturn them with stones. Saladine promised great rewards for their destruction; at last a young man of Damascus flattered himself that he would burn them by means of an inflammable matter of which he possessed the secret, and which was different from the common Greek fire. In reality, after having mixed various drugs with naptha or petroleum, in brazen vases, these vases were hurled against the castles, and consumed them in an instant. Michaud says that they were reduced to ashes, as though they had been struck by the lightnings of Heaven. In the Pièces Justificatives, at the end of his second volume, is an extract fiom the MS. Life of Saladme by Renaudot, which bears upon the subject. “It is certain,” says M. Renaudot, “that the artificial fire, called Greek fire, feu de mer, or liquid fire, whose composition is found in the Greek and Latin historians, was very different from that which the Eastern nations began to use at this period, and of which the effect was the more surprising, as its саusе was entirely unknown; for, while the common Greek fire was prepared with wax, pitch, sulphur, and other combustible matters, the principal ingredient of this was naptha or petroleum, of which there are natural springs in the neighbourhood of Bagdad, similar to those remarked by the ancients near Ecbatana, on the confines of Media, and in other parts of Реrsia. It appears probable that the Orientals first made use of it at this siege (Acre), and that the Christians, from its resemblance, called it also Greek fire, and believed it to be the same which was known throughout the Levant. The Greeks and Mahomedans afterwards continued to employ their respective fires, without communicating the secret to other nations. The Greeks distinguishing the naptha fire of the east by the name of Median fire; and the Latins confounding both under that of Greek fire, in the same manner as the Orientals afterwards gave the appellation of naptha to the gunpowder by which it was superseded.” M. Mailly enters into a digression on the subject of the Greek fire. Its effects are doubtless exaggerated; and, though I have availed myself in the Poem of such exaggerations, there are not perhaps many who will now seriously believe on the authority of some old historians, that it consumed the very stones, or that, while the tendency of all other flame is to aspire, this had at least an equal inclination to burn downwards. M. Mailly, whose work was published in 1780, states that some of his contemporaries had pretended to a re-discovery of its composition. It was not ten years before that a person named Dupré, had died in the receipt of a pension paid him by the French Government on condition of burying his secret in oblivion. Mailly had himself known a physician, who had made the same discovery, or at least one similar, but to whose labours the ministry gave no encouragement, “a humanity,” he adds, “as honourable to philosophy, as to our country; the only one perhaps, where persons in place may be found, sufficiently the friends of mankind, to forbear multiplying the sources of their destruction; and to remember, that if unhappily wars are sometimes necessary, infernal secrets should be left to infernal armies, and that we already possess too much, in the use of gunpowder!!” The English Government would certainly have drawn upon itself the anathemas of M. Mailly, and have afforded a fine field for the display of his national vanity by its patronage of the Congreve rockets, had they then existed. ↩

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§ Note (m), page 149, line 361, Oh! who but courts th’ emprize, the glory rare?

The conveyance of Greek or Median fire to the city was, throughout the siege of Acre, a service of great importance and danger. It was generally effected by means of swimmers or divers. Vinesauf mentions one who was carrying it in an otter’s skin, but being caught by some fishermen, was brought to the camp. ↩

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§ Note (n), page 153, line 443. But call’d in after years “the English stone.”

In some of the histories of the Crusades there is mention of a rock on the sea-shore very near Acre, which received the name of La Pierre des Anglois; but I do not known on what account. ↩

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§ Note (o), page 162, line 656. Who dared that chief in battle-shock to meet.

Ermengard D’Aps was grand master of the Knights Hospitallers before the taking of Jerusalem, and enjoyed that dignity for more than five years. The Grand Masters of the Templars were less fortunate, for at least four or five were successively slain in the same period. ↩

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§ Note (p), page 164, line 706. Protects the mole, the shelter’d port commands.

The form of Acre is triangular. It is defended by the sea on the north, western, and southern sides, and on the northeast or land side is guarded by walls and strong towers. At the northern extremity, or apex of the triangle is the Tour du Diable (Satan’s Fort). In the middle of the line, and at a projecting angle, is the Tour Maudite (Accursed Tower), the scene of the most violent assaults. At the south-eastern extremity, very near to the sea, is the Tower of David, or Tour du Patriarche; beyond this the wall extends a short distance into the sea, and is terminated by a small fort to which I find no distinguishing name. The sea encroaching on the southern side, or base of the triangle, forms a sort of bay defended by a mole, which springing from the shore near the southwestern corner, stretches half across, and is bounded by a strong tower, built on an insulated rock. This rock was formerly the site of a temple of Jupiter, and the place where the priests retired to inspect the entrails of the victims. From the number of flies which were hence attracted to the rock arose its name of Tour des Mouches. I have endeavoured to retain the pleasanter part of the idea, and have called it the Tower of Sacrifice. I may perhaps here be permitted to make a short observation on the names of Acre and Ptolemais, respecting which much has been written. The former name, or at least such modification of it as arises from the different pronunciation in various languages, seems to have been both the ancient and modern appellation of the city, and it has been questioned whence it acquired that of Ptolemaïs. Some writers have suggested that this last name, though employed by the Greeks of the Lower Empire, and the Latin authors, may never have become general among the natives of the country. Vinesauf, I think, gives a satisfactory explanation. The old town of Acre, as appears from the remains of its walls, did not occupy more than the lower half of the triangle, and Vinesauf says that to the north or on the side nearest to the hill of Turon, was that part of the city called Ptolemais, having been more recently built. ↩

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§ Note (q), page 165, line 734. Record his death, and Herod’s impious vow.

To the left of the mosque, on the north of the city of Acre, are the ruins of a building still known by the name of King Richard’s Palace. Dr. Clarke calls its architecture gothic, and from the representations which I have seen, the arches are decidedly pointed. Two lofty arches and part of the superstructure remain; the cornice is ornamented with enormous stone busts, of very distorted countenances, whence the building has derived its name; these being supposed to represent the heads of the Saracens whom the Lion-hearted Monarch killed, or ate, according to the romance. Dr. Clarke thinks it more probable that it has been a church of St. John the Baptist, and erected during the time when the Christians were in possession of Acre, whether before or after its capture by Saladine. It is possible that from this very structure the city assumed its title of St. Jean D’Acre. ↩

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§ Note (r), page 168, line 790. What though a random spear had pierced his side.

This wound is historical, as are also most of the subsequent incidents, and particularly the manner of Leopold’s retreat. ↩

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§ Note (s), page 170, line 849. And thank the care that rais’d its walls so high.

The Christian camp at Acre, by means of successive additions and entrenchments had become (iike the town of Santa Fé, built by Ferdinand and Isabella under the walls of Grenada), almost the rival of the city it besieged. It contained streets and churches: not indeed such as would have been erected in a situation where they were likely to be permanent, but such as a residence of three years must have supplied with all the necessaries, and even some of the luxuries of that half-civilized age. These were incessantly filled with warriors from almost every nation of Christendom. The Arabian writers say that so many languages were spoken in the crusading army, that they could not find interpreters for the captives; and in another place, that the camp was so well fortified, that not even a bird could get in. ↩

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§ Note (u), page 172, line 887. Blends all his victims in one funeral pyre.

See Michaud, vol.ii. p. 892, where he speaks of a Christian knight who singly defended one of the gates of the camp against a crowd of Saracens. The Arabian authors compare him to a demon, animated by all the fires of hell. An enormous cuirass covered him entirely, arrows, stones, and lances were showered in vain upon him, destroying all that approached, he seemed himself invulnerable, till at last he fell a victim to the Greek fire—“Devoré par les flammes, il périt, semblable à ces machines énormes des Chrétiens que les assiégés avaient brûlées sous les murailles de la ville.” Marin distinguishes this herо as the Count of Bar, to whom his valour had procured the title of the French Achilles. ↩

Book V

§ Note, page 177, line 32. Whose was the single ship, the single arm?

Conrad of Montferrat first visited Palestine at the time of the second crusade, when his father with his four sons accompanied his uncle, the Emperor Conrad the Third, on that unfortunate expedition. He afterwards distinguished himself in Italy in the contests between the Emperors and the Holy See, conquered some of the Islands of the Adriatic, which he sold to Venice, and then passing a second time to Constantinople, he assisted Isaac Angelus to establish himself on the imperial throne, having killed in battle the leader of the rebels. The sister of this monarch was at first a bait for his ambition, but finding that his marriage gained him nothing but the title of Cæsar, and the right of wearing purple slippers, he left the unhappy Theodora, and sailed to Palestine in quest of more substantial laurels. He arrived at Tyre in a single ship, on the very day when it was engaged to surrender to Saladine if not relieved. The Sultan threatened to place the old Marquis of Montferrat, who had been some time his prisoner, in front of his army, and to expose him to the arrows of the besieged if the town did not surrender, but Conrad was either too well convinced of the humanity of Saladine to fear his threat, or was insensible to the appeal, and replied that if the Soldan were barbarous enough to cause the death of one who had surrendered on his parole, he should glory in being the son of a martyr. Tyre remained his own; he assumed the title of its Prince, and enlarged its territory. Vinesauf says, that he had also another wife in Germany, high born and beautiful; I think her name was Emilia; but many of the heroes of the crusades would not have been sorry to claim at least one of the indulgences of the Mahommedan law.

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§ Note, page 178, line 69. The Prelate of Beauvais, ministrant there.

The nuptial ceremony was performed by the Bishop of Beauvais, most of the other prelates protesting against it. Baldwin, the old Archbishop of Canterbury, died a few days after, of grief, it is said, at this disgraceful scene.

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§ Note, page 184, line 195. And deeper plunge in misery and in crime.

Vinesauf gives a distressing picture of this famine, and devotes no less than twelve sections to bitter invective against Conrad, who withheld from the army the provisions with which he had agreed to supply it. Perchance he had them not.

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§ Note (a) and (b), page 188, line 290. With envy fired, De Vere and Sackville spring.

(a) Alberic, or Aubrey de Vere, second Earl of Oxford, and married to Adelicia, daughter of Roger Bigot Earl οf Norfolk. De Vere was so great a favourite with John, as to be reckoned among his evil counsellors. (b) Sackville or Salkavilla, now Dukes of Dorset. Herbrand de Salkavilla came to England with the Conqueror. Nigell de Salkavilla was excommunicated by Thomas à Becket, for detaining a manor belonging to the Archbishop, at the same time that he inflicted a similar punishment on Robert Brock, who had cut off the tail of a horse which was carrying provisions to his palace. This was only four days previous to his murder. Sir Jordan de Salkeville, nephew to Nigell, married Clementia, daughter of Alberic de Vere, Earl of Oxford. ↩

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§ Note (c), page 183, line 293 How Albert fought, or stout Fitzharding fell.

Fitzharding, was the ancient name of the House of Berkeley, which descended from the Kings of Denmark. In 1168, Fitzharding entertained at Bristol, Dermot Mac Murrough, King of Leinster, with a company of sixty, when he came to England to solicit aid from Henry the Second. which event brought on the conquest of Ireland. Maurice, his eldest son, married Alice, daughter of Roger de Berkeley, and was one of the rebellious barons in the reign of John. ↩

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§ Note (d), page 189, line 313. To Acre borne, had made your valour vain.

The Dromond was bound from Damietta to Acre. Both the European and Oriental writers vaunt its magnitude, and the importance of the stores which it contained. It was said to hold corn sufficient to supply the city of Acre for twо years, besides great quantities of Turkish bows, of urns with Greek fire, and, among other ammunition, of venomous serpents, which were destined to sting or bite the Christians to death. To modern ears, this seems an extraordinary weapon of offence, as the serpents might be perverse and bite the wrong party; it is possible that these were some warlike engines, bearing the form or name of serpents, though the other idea is not unworthy of the fancy, which supposed Richard to have brought to Acre no less than thirteen ship loads of bee-hives, the denizens of which did good service against the besieged. See the Romance:

Kyng Richard into Acre’s cyté
Leet keste the hyves gret plenté.
It was hoot in the someres tyde,
The bees bursten out on every syde,
That wer anoyed, and fui off grame;
They dede the Sarezynes ful gret schame,
For they hem stungge in the vysage,
That alle they gunne for to rage;
And hydde hem in a deep selèr,
That none of hem durste com neer;
And sayde Kyng Richard was ful fel,
When hys flyes byten so wel!

A similar incident occurs in the history of the Caliph Vathek, where Carathis introduces small pots of venomous serpents into her apartments, to destroy her unsuspecting visitors. The Oriental writers agreed, that if the Dromond had arrived in safety, the Christians would never have been able to take Acre. The Romance has the same idea:

“For, hadde the drowmound i-passyd the see,
And comen to Acres fro Kyng Richard;
An hondryd wyntyr afftyrward,
For alle Crystene-men under sunne,
Hadde nevyr Acres ben i-wunne!” ↩

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§ Note (e), page 193, line 411. And rapturous greeting, hail them to the strand.

I cannot give a better idea of Richard’s magnificence, or of the joy of the Crusaders on his arrival, than by quoting two passages from Vinesauf, the former of which describes his entrance into the harbour of Messina, the second his appearance in the bay of Acre. After observing on the necessity of splendour in princes, qualem te video, talem te esse spero, and the disappointment of the Messinese, who on going out to meet Philip at his arrival, found him in a single ship, like a fugitive, and hastening to hide himself in his castle, as though he feared the sight of men; the chronicler continues: “ Porro Rex Angliæ ille magnanimus, ex quo fama prædicante divulgabatur adventare, catervatim ruunt populi, ilium cernere cupientes; et in littus se ingerentes certatim occupant sedes ilium ascendentem visuri. Et ecce eminus prospiciunt mare galeis opertum innumeris, et vox à longe intonabat in aures eorum tubarum reboantium, et lituum clarius et acutius resonantium, interea propius accedentibus fuit videre galeas seriatim remigantes, variis undique ornatas et refertas armaturis, ventilantibus ad aurum innumeris penuncellis, et signis, ordine decoro, in hastilium summitatibus; rostris galearum varietatibus picturarum distinctis, appensorum in singulis proris, scintillantibus radiis scutorum, videres ex multitudine adventantium remigantium mare fervescere, tubarum intonationibus, quas trumpas vulgo dicunt, audientium aures tinnire, et ex vario tumultuantium acessu delectationem excitari. Cum ecce rex magnificus juxta navigantium galearum catervatim obsequio stïpatus, cæteris eminentiori et ornatiori præstans in prora, tanquam ignota visurus, sive ab ignotis videndis fertur in littus obsitum densarum turbarum agminibus, et omnibus tanquam se ultro videndum exponens, eleganter ornatus in littus ascendit, ubi nautas, quos eo præmiserat, cum cœteris addictis obsequiis suis reperit, eum gratanter excipientes, et dextrarios, et equos suos nobiles, sibi pridem commissos ad vecturam exhibentes. Confluunt bine inde cum suis indigente prosequentes ipsum usque ad hospitium suum. Super cujus tanta gloria vulgus attonitum conferebat ad invicem, hic quidem dignus Imperio, hic merito constitutus super gentes, et super regna, cujus fama olim audita multa junior est ipsa ventate quam videmus.”

It was on the day of St. Barnabas, or of the summer solstice, that Richard appeared before Acre. The whole army advanced to meet him, and the earth shook with the exulting shouts of the Christians, while the Turks, who heard their trumpets and acclamations, were deprest and terrified. “Duo Reges à portu sese mutuo deducentes gratanter officiosis alter utrum venerabantur obsequiis. Deinde Rex Richardus in tentoria sibi preparata se recipiens de gerendis negotiis disponebant. Multa quidem meditabatur solicitudine qua instantia, quo artificio, quibus Machinis civitas expeditiori comprehenderetur compendio. De cujus adventu nec calamus absolute poterit populi describere lætitiam, nec cujusquam lingua retexere, noctis etiam serenitas aere solito puriore eidem æstimabatur arridere; sed et hinc trumpæ perstrepunt, illine intonant tubæ, hinc acutius modulantes concinunt tibicines, illine tympana concrepitant, sive gravioribus harmoniis susurrant Heroinæ: et tanquam ex variarum vocum dissonantiis mulcens auditem captatur Symphonia; пес enim inveneritur de facili qui more suo cessaret à laudibus et gaudio: aut enim cordis testantes lætitiam resonant populares cantiones, aut antiquorum præclara gesta, priora exempla recitabantur in incitamenta modernorum. Hi cantantibus vina propinant in vasis pretiosis, alii quibus libet indifferenter accipientibus pusillis cum majoribus summo cum tripudio noctis transigebant instantiam. Accessit in augmentum lætitiæ, quod Cyprum insulam tam commodam, tam necessariam, Rex Richardus nostræ sub-jugasset ditioni, quæ tam oportune tantæ serviret exercitui. Nihilominus in testimonium exortæ laetitiæ in cordibus omnium, et ad removendas noctis tenebras, ubique cerea scintillabant lampades, luminaria flammantia, et multiplicato fulgore nox diei videretur usurpasse claritatem, ita ut totam vallem Turci reputarent igne succensam.” ↩

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§ Note (f), page 194, line 427. His brazen axe, that crushed where’er it fell.

The tremendous axe of Richard, with which he was wont to “crush the bones” of misbelieving Saracens, is said to have had twenty pounds of steel in its head. Mr. Smith, in his Ancient Costume of England, mentions the axe of Baldwin Bras de Fer, Earl of Flanders, which is preserved in the Belfort Tower at Ghent, and gives a figure of it, bearing a strong resemblance to the description of that weapon. It weighs eighteen pounds, and is only a single axe.

Of Richard’s axe the romance says:

“King Richard, I understond
Or he went out of Englond,
Let him make an ax for the nones,
To breke therwith the Sarasyns bones.
The head was wrought right well;
Therin was twenty poundc of stele;” ↩

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§ Note (g), page 194, line 431. And the gold broom-flower on its glittering round.

In the portrait of Richard on the first of his seals, the upper circle of his helmet is surrounded by an ornament which is supposed to be the flower of the Planta Genista, or broom, whence the house of Anjou took the surname of Plantagenet. This device originated either with Geoffrey Earl of Anjou (the grandfather of our Richard the First), who is said to have worn a sprig of broom in his hat when on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, or with his father Fulk of Anjou, the fourth King of Jerusalem, who on his way thither used a branch of broom or furze as a scourge. Henry the Second of England, son of the above named Geoffrey, was the first of our Kings who bore the name of Plantagenet. He is reported to have placed a sprig of broom in his helmet, on taking the vow of the crusade. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 195, line 457. Sicilia’s matchless grain, Oporto’s wine.

A part of Richard’s army, in its way to Messina, assisted Sancho, the first King of Portugal, in the conquest of Sylvia from the Moors; in the same manner that the soldiers of Conrad the Third, and Louis the Seventh, had in the former crusade enabled Alphonso, first King of that country, to take Lisbon, which the Portuguese feign to have been founded by Ulysses. There can therefore be little doubt that Portugal, as well as Sicily and Cyprus, contributed to the victualling of the English fleet. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 196, line 465. And neigh aloud for liberty regained.

The palanders or horse transports were drawn on the beach, and the horses introduced by a sort of shelving platform, which was afterwards turned up to close the opening. This door was then well secured, and was entirely under water while the vessels were at sea. When it was desired to land the horses, the palanders were again drawn up on shore till the gate was exposed; the fastenings were removed, and the horses descended to the shore without inconvenience or injury. — See Mailly, &c. ↩

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§ Note (k), page 197, line 483. Vast as the tent for great Kerboga wove.

Of the immense booty which fell into the hands of the first Crusaders, at the battle of Antioch, nothing was so highly prized, or excited so much admiration, as the superb tent of Kerboga, King of Mosul, one of their principal antagonists. It was adorned with gold and silver in every part, was of such vast extent as easily to contain two thousand men, was divided into streets, and defended by towers, like a fortified town. This tent, the only one perhaps of the kind which had been seen siпсе the time of Constantine, who caused a similar one to be constructed, became the property of Bohemond, who sent it to Bari in Italy. — Mailly, &c. — The crusading Princes appear to have quickly caught a taste for this oriental luxury, and their small and clumsy tents were soon improved upon an Eastern model; though they never attempted to vie with this pompous specimen of Asiatic luxury, which will remind the reader of the tent given by the fairy Paribanon to her lover Achmed, in the Arabian Tales. Another splendid tent is named by the historians of the first crusade; it was sent by an Armenian Prince, Nichosias, as a present to Godfrey, but fell into an ambuscade prepared by Pancrates, who sent it to Bohemond, as a gift from himself. Godfrey reclaimed it, and it became the subject of much altercation between the two leaders, till Bohemond was at last compelled to yield. ↩

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§ Note (l), page 199, line 542. I crown’d as victor of Pamplona’s fight.

Richard is said to have been struck with the beauty of Berengaria, Princess of Navarre, while he was only Count of Poitou. I do not know where to turn to my authority, but I have some recollection of his being present at a tournament given either by her father or brother. ↩

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§ Note (m), page 201, line 585. The first of Western thrones, the “King of Kings.”

Mailly says, in speaking of the letter of Hugues le Grand to Alexius, “that such was the opinion which those ages entertained of the power of a King of France, that the title of Roi des Rois was not only often claimed for him by his subjects, but bestowed by writers of other nations; such as Matthew Paris, who gives it to him par excellence.” In like manner the daughters of the French King are said to have disdained the name of Princesses, and to have pretended that the title of Queen was due to their birth alone. ↩

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§ Note (n), page 203, line 617. One half of Flanders to my rule resign.

Among other things to which the two Monarchs had bound themselves, when they met at Vezelay to make arrangements for their journey, was an exact division of conquest during the Crusade. Philip therefore claimed one-half of Cyprus from Richard: but that monarch insisted that though they were bound to share whatever they should acquire together, Philip had no right over that which was won without his aid; nevertheless he was willing to divide the island with him, if Philip would in like manner give him half the county of Flanders, which had just reverted to its Suzerain by the death of Theodoric, who expired at Acre on the very day of Richard’s arrival. To this Philip would not agree, and the quarrel was never perfectly accommodated. ↩

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§ Note (o), page 204, line 641. From Fulk I also spring—this biting blade.

Fulk, fourth King of Jerusalem, was by his first marriage father to Geoffrey Earl of Anjou, so that Richard stood in exactly the same relation to Fulk with Baldwin the Fifth, they being both his great-grand-children; and if it were to be considered that a female was unworthy to fill the throne of Jerusalem (as had been asserted at the accession of Sybilla), he became the legitimate heir. ↩

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§ Note (p), page 205, line 683. The stings of death for those the sword shall spare.

Richard, almost immediately on his arrival before Acre, addressed himself to the consideration of the means likely to compel its surrender; and one of his most efficacious manœuvres was the turning the course of a river which supplied the city with water. This circumstance has possibly been the occasion of some difficulty into which geographers have fallen respecting the river Belus. This river formerly so celebrated for its silicious sands, and the accidental discovery of glass, is joined near its mouth by another river, which being figured in some charts as a separate stream, doubts arose as to which really deserved the name of Belus. More recent surveys having proved their junction, it is probable that the lesser stream was that which formerly supplied Acre with water, and which Richard diverted from its course. M. Michaud observes that Acre is perhaps the only city of which we possess an original plan, taken so early as the thirteenth century. ↩

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§ Note (q), page 206, line 691. Stretch’d its huge links, and dipp’d beneath the main.

See the description of Acre in the note on the Fourth Book. This chain is mentioned in history, but the manner in which Richard destroyed it is from the Romance.

“How the folk off the hethene lawe,
A gret eheyne hadden i-drawe,
Ovyr the havene of Acres fers,
And was festnyd to two pelèrs,
That noo schyp ne scholde in-wynne,
Ne they nought out that wer withynne.”

“And Kynge Rychard, that was so good,
With hys axe in foreschyp stood;
And whenne he com the cheyne too,
With hys axe he smot it in two,
That all the barouns, verrayment,
Sayde it was a noble dent.” ↩

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§ Note (r), page 212, line 825. A thousand marks proclaimed to him should lure him home.

I avail myself of this incident to notice a characteristic difference between the third Crusade and those which preceded it. Louis the Seventh of France, and the Emperor Conrad, followed the track of Peter the Hermit and Godfrey of Bouillon. They had to contend with all the fatigues of a long and difficult journey, with all the miseries of famine, and all the dangers arising from open hostility and secret treachery; in Hungary, Bulgaria, and the Greek provinces bordering on Constantinople. These evils redoubled, when, passing into Asia Minor, they became entangled in mountain passes, and exposed to the incessant attacks of the Turks, under the dominion of the Seljouc Sultans of Iconium. Scarcely a third of their numerous armies reached Palestine, and those who did not perish in the journey, or whose sufferings did not cause them to turn back before they attained the Holy Land, arrived there in a deplorable state of exhaustion and poverty. Destitute of provisions, of money, frequently of arms and clothing, warriors of high birth, and ample European possessions, were often reduced to subsist on the charity of wealthier or more provident leaders; and all were in need of assistance. Frederic Barbarossa, whose lamentable expedition forms a part of the third Crusade, still pursued the beaten track; and even the courage and ability which had been displayed in a long life of war, could not save himself and his army from the fate of their precursors. Philip Augustus and Richard of England, however, took warning from the sad example, and emulating the adventurous spirit displayed by the Norwegian Sigurd, and other warriors of the Baltic, they dared to entrust themselves and their armies to the ocean, and hired for the voyage the galleys of Genoa and Piso; for Venice, though then the first of maritime powers, took little part in the crusades, till her own interests were attacked in the contest for Constantinople. Some dangers were encountered in the course of the voyage, part of which may be reckoned among the ordinary casualties of the sea, but of which the greater proportion should be ascribed to the imperfection of the galleys, and to the ignorance of pilots. Still the French and English crusaders encountered neither toil nor privation, and the nobles transported into the East the comforts and many of the luxuries of their feudal castles. The passion for the chase, which then began to rage in France, and had even shewed symptoms of its future dominion in England, prompted many to carry with them their hounds and their falcons. The hunting equipages of several were even scandalously magnificent, and the Syrian nobles thought that their new allies seemed better prepared to wage war with the wild birds and beasts of their country, than with the Saracens. The numbers of dogs and falcons belonging to some individuals is almost beyond belief, and Philip Augustus was determined not to be outdone by his vassals. The bird whose loss is mentioned in the poem, was the subject of a serious embassy to Saladine, the conditions of its restoration were debated with all the solemnity of a treaty, and a sum of money was offered, which would have been sufficient for the ransom of many Christian knights. A fact which gave just offence to those whose relations or friends were prisoners to the Soldan.

The private interests of Philip Augustus, and the lukewarmness or disagreement of other princes, prevented the third crusade from being equally glorious in its result with that of Godfrey, but it was distinguished by more of discipline and conduct, and was free from those disasters, those deplorable scenes of human vice and suffering, which cause the mind to revolt from the history of almost every other expedition to the Holy Land. In the preceding crusades, the examples are distressingly numerous, and, in those which followed, the names of Constantinople and Damietta are sufficient to prove that the leaders of the Latin armies, brave and pious as they were, had not yet learned to be generals. When I saу that I ascribe the less disastrous issue of the third crusade to the influence of Richard Cœur de Lion, I shall perhaps raise a smile, and be thought unduly partial to my hero, but the consideration of this subject will be more in its place when I have occasion to speak of the march to Arsouf, and the battle of Jaffa. ↩

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§ Note (s), page 216, line 921 Then sptead her wings and vanished in the sky.

During the siege of Acre the Christians often received intelligence of the intentions of the besieged by means of arrows with labels attached, which were shot into the camp by some friend within the town, and who was supposed to have perished before the surrender of the place, as he never made himself known. Saladine kept up his communication with the city by means of divers, and of carrier pigeons. These winged messengers had long been in use in the east, and were particularly employed under his predecessor Noureddin. ↩

Book VI

§ Note (a), page 224, line 20. The soul of war—in youth had Jerworth’s hand.

Both the houses of Cadogan and Hampden trace their lineage back to the renowned Caradoc Friech bras or Вrise bras, one of the most famous of Arthur’s peers, and no less renowned for his fidelity in love, than his valour in war. The poem alludes to the Fabliau of “The Mantle made amiss” in which Sir Caradoc’s lady wins the magic garb, which would fit no damsel whose heart had ever been touched with inconstancy. Jerworth was a family name of the house of Hampden or Trevor. ↩

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§ Note (b), page 230, line 131. And by his hand the youthful Osbert dies.

Osbert, descended from Geoffrey de Clinton, Lord Chamberlain and Treasurer to Henry the First. His descendant’s are now Dukes of Newcastle. ↩

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§ Note, page 234, line 218. “Winton,” he said, “strip thou this braggart for”

Roger de Quincey, Earl of Winchester. There were but two Earls of Winchester of this family. ↩

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§ Note (d), page 234, line 238. Once had they saved from him the Soldan’s chain.

The great benefactor to the English Templars, was Roger de Mowbray, who accompanied Louis the Seventh to the Holy Land in 1148. He granted to the order various manors in Leicestershire. The knights, as an honourable return, gave him the privilege of pardoning any Templar who was doing penance. But they did him the more valuable service of ransoming him from the Saracens, after the battle of Tiberias, for one journey to Palestine did not satisfy this pious chieftain. In the days of Edward the Third, the Hospitallers, as possessors of the lands of the Templars, conferred the privilege of pardoning offending knights upon John Lord Mowbray, the lineal heir of Roger. ↩

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§ Note (e), page 236, line 280. Should fight the battles of his injur’d God.

It was in reality Henry the Second, and not Richard, who explored the tomb of King Arthur, in Glastonbury Abbey; the songs of the Cambrian Bards having revealed to him that monarch’s place of sepulchre. The bodies of himself, and his Queen Geneura, were found in two stone coffins by the side of the high altar, and were little changed by time. Richard afterwards bestowed Caliburn on Tanced King of Sicily, but it is to be regretted that he did not retain so interesting a relic. Warton s poem of “Arthur’s Grave,” is probably familiar to my readers. ↩

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§ Note (f), page 240, line 371 That scented scimitar of Syrian frame.

The pliability of the damask sabres is more remarkable than the keenness of their edge. They appear upon close examination to be striated, or composed of filaments of steel and iron, in a manner similar to the alloys of steel and silver obtained in the experiments of Messrs. Stodart and Faraday, The best damask sabres are not only richly mounted, but are said to be strongly impregnated with a perfume, which they never lose. ↩

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§ Note (g), page 242, line 420. And gave her captive foes to lingering flame!

Fanaticism was not confined to the Christian army, for the Saracens of Acre exasperated their besiegeirs by offering every possible outrage to the symbol of their creed. They raised crosses on the ramparts, beat them with rods, covered them with mud and dust, and broke them into a thousand pieces in sight of the Crusaders, who vowed anew to revenge their outraged faith. In the excess of religious animosity, the Moslems often massacred their unarmed captrves, and on more than one оссаsiоп, they were seen to burn their Christian prisoners on the field of battle. — Michaud. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 243, line 432 His servants tremble for a life adored.

See Note (h), pages 408-409. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 244, line 454. To mate the banner with the badge of kings.

This seems to have been the true reason of the quarrel between Richard and Leopold, that the latter, being only a Duke, ordered his banner to he placed on the ramparts, which the high spirited Monarch considered as an affront to his legal dignity, and flung it into the ditch without any ceremony. ↩

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§ Note (j), page 248, line 560. He lopp’d the pennon’s forked points, and said.

Knights were divided into two classes, Knights Bannerets and Knights Bachelors: no man being properly a Knight Banneret, who could not bring into the field a certain number of lances, from fifty to twenty-five, this last was the lowest number; he had also a right to a war cry, which other knights had not. He was distinguished by the square banner, carried by a squire at the point of his lance, whereas the Knight Bachelor had only the cornet or forked pendant. When a Banneret was created, the general cut off the ends of his pendant to render it square, but this honour conferred no command except over his own dependants. Olivier de la Marche makes a distinction between the Bachelor created Banneret on account of his estate or merit, and the hereditary Banneret, who took a public opportunity of requesting the Sovereign to unfold his family banner, which he had before borne wound round his lance: the first was called réleve bannière, the second entrer en bannière. Sir John Chandos was still a Bachelor when he led part of the Black Prince’s army into Spain, and first raised his banner at the battle of Navarette, where it was unfolded, not cut. — See Hallam’s Middle Ages. ↩

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§ Note (к), page 249, line 564. Now prove him false that called his King unjust.

The authority for this little episode is in Vinesauf, who records that one of his knights voluntarily received the blow which was aimed at Richard, and also the circumstance of the Monarch’s reconciliation after the battle, with one who had previously offended him, but whom he forgave on account of his valour.—He also makes frequent mention of Baldwin do Carrio (now Carew) who must have been either the son or nephew of William, Castellan of Windsor, whose fidelity was so conspicuous during the absence of Richard.—This William was hereditary governor of Windsor Castle, that office having been confirmed to his father by the Empress Maude, and from it his family took the surname of Windsor, which is still retained by their descendants the Earls of Plymouth. That of Carrio, perpetuated in the Carews of Cornwall and Devon, was derived from a fief which William inherited in right of his mother.—This family is by some antiquaries derived from the Dukes of Tuscany, who are said to have passed from Florence to Normandy, but its descent appears pretty well established from Othoer, a powerful lord under King Alfred, and of Norwegian ancestry. Gerald, great grandson of Othoer, was sent by Henry the Second against Owen Rhys, Prince of Gwyneth or North Wales, whom he reduced to submission, and was made Castellan of Pembroke, under Montgomery Earl of Pembroke, Having also slain Owen, son of Cadugan ap Blethyn, chief Lord of Cardiganshire, he was made president of the county of Pembroke, chamberlain to the King, and married the Princess Nesta, daughter of the vanquished Prince of Gwyneth. His second son, Maurice, was the principal person by whose aid Ireland was conquered, and distinguished in most of the principal actions there. From him descended the Fitzgeralds, Dukes of Leinster, Fitzmaurices, Earls of Kerry, and the Fitzgeralds, Earls of Desmond (now extinct); of the same stock were the Geralds, Earls of Macclesfield (now also extinct); the Lords Gerald of Bromley, the Geralds of Bryn, in Lancashire, and many other noble families of the same name. The ancient armorial bearings were Gules, a saltier argent. ↩

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§ Note (l), page 254, line 680. Those webs that only Arab maids can weave.

A sort of coarse cloth, the manufacture of which is peculiar to the women of Arabia. ↩

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§ Note (m), page 254, line 681. Where towering date-trees shade the saffron mead.

Saffron was one of the principal exports of the East in the middle ages, and the Crusaders were delighted when on arriving there they beheld whole fields of the favourite plant. ↩

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§ Note (n), page 255, line 690. And sold, half-lifeless, to a stranger’s hand.

The “Letters from Tripoli” contain many distressing relations of the manner in which Georgian and Circassian girls are kidnapped by the Tartars, and hurried across the desert in sacks slung on the back of a camel. Many die on the journey, or never recover their fatigues, though they are afterwards fattened with the greatest care, and instructed in such accomplishments as are considered most marketable. Of these stories the most interesting is that of Lilla Haluma, who after many sufferings was sold to Hadgi Abderahman, afterward ambassador in England; and by her beauty and gentleness not only induced her master to marry her, but to grant her many indulgences not often accorded to the Moorish females, and among others, that of receiving intelligence from her native country, and relieving the wants of her family, who had fallen into distress. Many of the poorer Georgians educate their daughters expressly for the Turkish market, and themselves dispose of them to the Tartars. ↩

Book VII

§ Note (a), page 273, line 36. Thou hold’st my life as dear as thine to me.

The speech of Philip Augustus is very nearly that which history ascribes to him; there appears little doubt that his sickness was affected, and that his religious ardour having never been great, his reasons for returning to Europe were purely political. These were the death of Theodoric Earl of Flanders, in consequence of which the Earldom reverted to his Suzerain, but which he was in danger of losing, if not at hand to take care of his interests; and the convenient opportunity which the absence of Cœur de Lion afforded him for attacking his ill-defended states, and gratifying the jealousy with which he regarded the superior wealth and martial fame of his rival. The friendship of Philip Augustus had been fatal to Richard while only Count of Poitou, for it led him into rebellion against his father, and his hatred in after life was his perpetual bane. The Crusade produced a faint and false accord; each had bound himself by the most solemn oaths to a participation of peril, of glory, and of conquest; to defend as his own the possessions of his comrade, both at home and abroad; and the Church had rivetted these vows by the most deadly imprecations on all that should violate “the Peace of God.” Yet were all these vows made but to be broken; real friendship needs no such covenants, and it has been ever obvious that the most solemn engagements are as wax before the flames of ambition. Richard and Philip were seldom together for three days without a quarrel; and though, as at Messina, the influence of the Holy Cause terminated these discords by a renewal of their vows, yet, as Michaud observes, there could be but little faith in a friendship which it was necessary to obtest so often. As soon as Richard arrived at Acre, the contest about Cyprus rekindled the sparks of jealousy, and the two Kings never once joined their forces against the foe; the most that could be obtained was that, one should attack the army of Saladine while the other assaulted the city; but on more than one occasion, as has been already noticed, Philip would have retired with disgrace before the Soldan, if Richard, forgetting his animosity, had not withdrawn his troops from the town and redeemed the victory. His martial superiority was thus rendered but more manifest. It was the duty of each leader to support his troops: and the monthly allowance which Richard granted to each man, was one-third more than that bestowed by Philip. It was natural that all who lived upon “debateable land” (and when we remember how many of the fairest provinces in France belonged to Richard, these could not be few), should be eager to profess themselves the followers of the most munificent master: Philip therefore accused Richard of seducing his soldiers from their allegiance. In a word, he had less irritability than the English Monarch, but as he also wanted his frankness, he seems never to have forgotten their former discontents, even at the moment when he again pledged an inviolable friendship; and when envy was in secret rankling in his heart, new grounds for quarrel could never belong absent. ↩

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§ Note (b), page 273, line 54. Again to pledge the vows of Vezelay.

Vezelay is a small town in Burgundy, not far from Auxerre, and was the place where Philip and Richard met to make final arrangements for the crusade. The vows taken at Vezelay were nearly the same as those by which the Crusaders, at the council of Clermont, bound themselves to abstain from all private or Christian warfare, and by which all the Princes and Nobles became reciprocal guardians of each others dominions during the crusade; such as might remain at home, or might return before the rest, pledging themselves to respect the rights of the absentees. Philip and Richard made a further agreement, that neither should abandon the crusade without the consent of the other; it was hence that Richard, when that consent was asked, required as a condition that Philip should again bind himself not to commit any outrage on his undefended states, of which his eagerness to return made him justly suspicious; and that Philip, in reply, demanded the renewal of Richard’s homage for the extensive fiefs which he held of the French crown; so extensive, indeed, that when it is remembered that neither Burgundy, nor Lorraine, nor Flanders, then belonged to the Kings of France, it may well be asked, on what pretensions they founded their right to the title of “King of Kings,” and first of the Monarchs of Europe. ↩

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§ Note (c), page 275, line 91, Ye are not worthy to behold her walls!

This memorable expression has been ascribed to Richard by the historians of the times, though they differ in their account of the occasion which called it forth. Some say, that during his residence at Jaffa, he penetrated, on one of his romantic hunting excursions, to a hill whence he had a distant view of the towers of Jerusalem. He was then preparing to return to Europe, and the Holy City seemed to upbraid him with his want of power to relieve her, and with his meditated desertion of her cause. He wept, and veiling his head in his mantle, exclaimed, “that those who could not deliver, were unworthy to behold her.” Other writers address this expression, as I have done, in reproach to some of his companions, who deserted their vows for the deliverance of the sepulchre. ↩

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§ Note (d), page 275, line 98. Paid the dire forfeit of his broken word.

This is the least graceful feature of King Richard’s life, and that which I have felt most difficulty in managing. To have passed it over entirely, would scarcely have been allowable, but after much consideration, I determined to touch it as slightly as possible. I could not hope to imitate Mr. Southey’s extraordinary power of identifying myself and my feelings with those of the age or country of which I treated, neither could I expect or wish, in the nineteenth century, to obtain the sympathy of my readers in an attempted extenuation of massacre. Yet it would surely have been as unjust to Richard, as it was inconsistent with a story of which he was the hero, to hold forth to the detestation of posterity, an act not only excused, but applauded by the fanaticism of his contemporaries. The facts were briefly these: when Acre was surrendered, about 4,000 captives remained in the hands of the two Sovereigns, Richard and Philip. A treaty had been entered into with Saladine for the payment of a large sum of gold, the surrender of the wood of the True Cross. &c. &c. on condition of which they were to receive their liberty: but if he failed to fulfil the treaty before a certain day, their lives were forfeit. The day expired, the conditions were unfulfilled; a good deal of fruitless negotiation followed, which only led to mutual exasperation; and, after waiting three weeks, Richard, who was preparing to commence his march, gave orders for the massacre. The numbers who are reported to have fallen vary from 1,500 to 4,000 or 6,000; I am inclined to think the lowest number the most correct. Many of the more wealthy had been already ransomed, or were reserved for ransom; and Philip, who had in the meantime departed to Tyre, took his share of the captives with him. Richard often sent for them, but he who was about to leave Palestine seemed rather inclined to obtain money for their freedom, than to strike terror by their murder, and if at last he gave them up to his rival, it does not appear that he did so previous to the massacre. Aboulpharagins says, “that the time being expired, Saladine sent to the Franks, ‘Dismiss all the Arabs who are in your bonds, and I will give you the third part of the gold, and hostages for the other two; or otherwise, ye shall give me hostages for the third part which ye have received.’ But the Franks said, ‘Our word alone is sufficient to you, and our honour: why should we give hostages?’ Then the heart of Saladme was hardened, neither would he consent, and the Franks being enraged, bound all the Arabs with cords, and leading them forth from the city on to the hill, having clothed them in vile garments, they ran upon them with drawn swords, and slew them in sight of the Moslem camp.” The author of the Life of St. Louis relates the event in a manner which lays the first guilt of massacre on Saladine, and implicates Philip in the retaliation inflicted by the Christians. “Cinque mille hommes qu’il y avoit de garnison demeurèrent prisonniers, à condition d’être relachés en faisant rendre la vraie croix, et les esclaves Chrétiens: sinon qu’ils demeuroient à la discretion des vainqueurs. Mais Saladin, ayant fait mourir un grand nombre des prisonniers qu’il avoit de son côté, bien loin de tenir la capitulation, ces 5,000 hommes eurent tous la tête tranchée, un moitié an nom de Philippe, et l’eutre au nom de Richard. Ce fut Eudes, Duc de Вourgogne, qui ménagea cet honneur à la France avec tant d’exactitude.” The Romance of Cœur de Lion, which by its naïveté renders amusing those scenes of horror which would otherwise disgust, increases the number of the captives to 60,000, commands their destruction by the voice of an angel, and dwells with peculiar pleasure on the edifying effusion of Pagan blood. At the same time it is not sparing in its abuse of Philip, whom it accuses of avarice in liking better to receive ransom for his prisoners, than to follow the good example of putting them to death. I ought not to omit, that Saladine was certainly not slow in making reprisals on the Christian captives in his hands; and Mr. Sharon Turner, in his admirable sketch of the Third Crusade, relates an interesting anecdote of a young warrior whom the Soldan kept for two days with him in his tent, conversing with him, and endeavouring to convert him, or to find some reason which might excuse to his own bigotry the disposition which he felt to exempt him from the fate of his companions. At last he gave orders for his death, an instance of cold blooded cruelty, of which Mr. Turner seems to think, that Richard, ferocious as he has been deemed, would have been incapable. ↩

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§ Note (e), page 276, line 112. By adverse ocean, or his wavering mind.

There were at least three embassies sent to Conrad at Tyre; of these the Bishop of Salisbury, Otho of Burgundy, and Roger de Quincy, Earl of Winchester, formed part; but as the several negotiations are not important to the story, I have mentioned but one, and engaged in it those personages that best suited my subject. The Bishop of Beauvais was certainly with Conrad at the period when he was engaged in treaty with Saladine, He was one of the most distinguished for valour among the martial prelates of thе age, but he did not, like Hubert of Salisbury, and the venerable Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury, combine the clerical virtues with the prowess of a warrior. During the captivity of Richard, the Bishop proved himself one of his most malignant enemies. ↩

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§ Note (f), page 276, line 119. Meanwhile the pilgrim host their course began.

The historians of the time are followed in this arrangement of the troops. Whatever was most precious moved in the centre, surrounded by the knights of England and Normandy; while the auxiliary cavalry, if I may so call the smaller troops belonging to other nations, formed the front and rear, and the infantry protected the flanks. The Templars and Hospitallers frequently exchanged places, but one was always in advance of the army, while the other formed the rear-guard. They were engaged in constant skirmishes with the infidels, especially after leaving Cesarea, and many acts of signal valour are recorded. The disposition and conduct of the troops in this long and difficult march, though not one of the most splendid achievements of our lion-hearted King, is among those which have gained him the greatest credit in modern times, and proves that in his military arrangements, he was not deficient in that prudence which has so often been denied to him. He is allowed to have been the first who in the age of chivalry consented to make use of infantry as a body, and who knew how to place it to advantage. ↩

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§ Note (g), page 277, line 132. And, sheathed in stubborn mail, the fianks defend.

The Saracens complained in this march that their javelins and arrows made no impression on the Christian yeomanry, whom they described as men of steel, and said that a javelin which would have pierced one of their men to the back-bone, dropped powerless from the European coats of mail. Some of them are said to have had not less than ten arrows bristling in their breast-plate and habergeon, yet to have marched on unwounded. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 277, line 134 The copious fleet each rising want supplied.

The fleet manned by the Pisans and Genose followed the line of coast along which the armies marched, so as to be ready to supply them with arms and provisions on any emergency. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 279, line 172. The name of him to self-destruction led.

The Judas-tree, which is common in all parts of Syria, owes its name to a belief that it was on this tree that Judas Iscariot hanged himself. Its blossom is abundant, and of a bright гоsе colour, but it perhaps rather deserves the name of a large shrub than of a tree. ↩

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§ Note (k), page 279, line 172. Their rich festoons of crimson and of gold.

The cactus opuntia, or Indian fig, of which hedges are made in many parts of Syria, where their proliferous stems form hedges of fourteen or fifteen feet high, and eight or nine feet thick. This extrdordmaiy plant, which I have already had occasion to notice in a note on a former work (the Veils,) forms an almost impenetrable barrier to the passage of an army, and appears capable of becoming even a greater annoyance than the kantuffa of Abyssinia. Its prickly leaves wound the horses, and, if torn, their acrid juice is still more distressing in its effects. It is not easily cut down, and it will not burn. It does not however appear to have been so common in Palestine in the twelfth century, as to cause any inconvenience to the Crusaders. Mrs. Tully, in her admirable Letters from Tripoli, admires the beauty of its red and yellow blobsoms, which she describes as hanging like festoons on the edge of its gigantic leaves. ↩

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§ Note (l), page S79, line 180, With this dire gift to curse th’ Atlantic world.

The history of the sugar-cane is curious, indigenous in Egypt, and cultivated with success in Syria, in Cyprus and Rhodes, this important plant was first made known to Europe by the Crusades. The soldiers of Raymond of Tholouse in 1098 discovered it in the neighbourhood of Tripoli, and when the march to Jerusalem was determined, they were with difficulty torn from the novel luxury. The mode of extracting the sugar was simple, but appears to have been efficacious. The inhabitants, when the canes were ripe, pounded them in a mortar, and then permitted the juice to coagulate in a cake “whiter than salt or snow.” The “Canna Mellis,” as it was called, (the Crusaders seeming to consider its juice as another species of honey) was soon transplanted into Sicily, where it appears to have flourished, and to have given rise to the extravagant passion for sweetmeats which existed in Italy in the fourteenth century, and of which traces may yet he found in the Carnival. Egypt was the principal source whence this consumption was supplied. From Sicily the culture of the sugar-cane passed to Grenada, thence to Madeira, and from Madeira to Brazil, whence it spread over the New World. ↩

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§ Note (m), page 279, line 181. All lovely yet appear’d that chosen land.

The present appearance of Palestine corresponds so little with the glowing description of “a land flowing with milk and honey,” or with the bunch of grapes which attested its fertility to the Children of Israel, that most of the writers on the Crusades have thought it necessary to enter into some details respecting its past and present state. A long and narrow tract of sandy coast, bounded by rocks and deserts, and but imperfectly and partially watered by mountain torrents, which, while they spread lavish fertility in their immediate neighbourhood, leave the rest a waste, conveys no adequate idea of the Land of Promise; the chosen Land, which was selected by Divine Will as the residence of his favourite people; the scene of his miraculous interpositions in their behalf, and finally the incarnation of his Son, and the redemption of mankind. The religion of Mahommed, like the locusts which visit most of the regions in which it predominates, seems to spread devastation in its course. The comparison maybe fanciful, but it is true, that while Christianity is on every side ameliorating the face of nature, in the same proportion that it improves the social condition of mankind, draining the bog, levelling the mountain, overcoming the rigour of the frozen north, or the drought of tropical climes, Mahommedanism, the religion of war, of oppression and cruelty, has been long at strife with the bounty of nature in some of the fairest portions of the globe. Even the provident labours of their ancient cultivators are neglected and despised. The canals of Egypt are suffered to go to decay, nor can the diminution of that belt of verdure which still clothes the bounteous Nile, warn the careless and oppressed inhabitants to oppose in time the encroachments of the desert upon that Granary of the Ancient World. In Palestine, the descriptions of the Crusaders seem to present a middle point between its former beauty and its present state of neglect. It had suffered much and often, from war and pillage; and the martial spirit of feudal discipline in a kingdom struggling for existence was nearly as unfavourable to the husbandman, as the rapacious inroads of the Turks; yet there had been intervals in which it had revived, and its beauty, though blighted, was not destroyed.

I cannot resist the temptation of subjoining to this note the comment of a literary friend. “The fertility of that country depends upon moisture and shade; humidity is encouraged by trees, it has never been observed that the fatal and predestined blow was given to Palestine by Titus. To frame those immense works with which he assailed the capital, he cut down gardens, groves, and forests, for many leagues around. Deprived of shade, the ground has ever since remained scorched and barren, for no attempts were or could be made to replant, &c. This, in a word, is the reason of the barren state of the country.” ↩

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§ Note (n), page 280, line 198. To Anna’s shrine their duteous homage pay.

Dr. Clarke speaks of the church of St. Anne at Saphura, as a stately Gothic edifice. The pointed arch is not uncommon in eastern ruins of the time of the Crusades; among these may be noticed the palace of Saladine at Cairo built under his directions, or those of his vizir Karacous. ↩

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§ Note (o), page 281, line 213. In the clear nectar from the fountain head.

The fresh pods of the tamarind steeped in water, from a cooling and delicious beverage, of which the acid is peculiarly agreeable beneath the fervour of an eastern sky. ↩

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§ Note (p), page 281, line 223. Turns to the sun, and loves, like her, in vain.

The heliotrope, so much admired for its fragrance, was the sunflower of the ancients, and the flower into which Clytie was supposed to be transformed. It is said always to turn its blossoms to the sun, and to follow him through the skies: but this “fond idolatry” is so much more conspicious in the common American sunflower, which has in addition the advantage to resemble the object of its adoration, that it has sometimes caused confusion; and a celebrated Italian artist, in painting the story of Clytie has introduced the sun-flower instead of the heliotrope.

Ovid describes the flower with sufficient exactness:

Perque novem luces expers undæque cibique,
Rore mero, lachrymisque suis jejunia pavit:
Nec se movit humo. Tantùm spectabat euntis
Ora Dei: vultusque suos fledtebat ad illum.
Membra ferunt hæsisse solo: partemque coloris
Luridus exsangues pallor convertit in herbas.
Est in parte rubor: violæque simillimus ora
Flos tegit. Illa suum, quamvis radice tenetur
Vertitur ad Solem; mutataque servat amorem.
 — Metam, lib. 4. ↩

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§ Note (q), page 287, line 356. Whose golden bloom outvies the robe of kings.

Sir James Smith supposes the amaryllis lutea, a very beautiful flower, which is as common in some parts of Palestine as the buttercup in our English meadows, to have been the plant alluded to by our Saviour when he says: “Consider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither do they spin, yet verily I say unto you that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.” ↩

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§ Note (r), page 287, line 358. From that whose beams a Saviours birth proclaim’d.

Ornithogallum, or Star of Bethlehem. ↩

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§ Note (s), page 288, line 378. Here ambush’d fraud might lurk, nor lurk in vain.

The country between Cesarea and Jaffa is one of the most difficult and dangerous which an army can have to struggle with. On the left is that prolongation of the chain of Lebanon, known by the general name of Mount Sharon, though in parts it borrows that of Napolose, of Sichem, and other places in the vicinity. A straggling forest, composed entirely of cerrial oak, extends over the sides of the hills, and sometimes approaches very near to the sea; the intermediate space is broken by rocks and torrents, whose stony beds are scarcely less difficult to cross in the summer, than their furious waves in winter. A French traveller (M. Paultre) compares this tract to that extraordinary region in the neighbourhood of Fontainebleau, which any of my readers who have had a taste of its cross-roads cannot fail to remember. Large blocks of calcareous stone, grey without, from the effect of weather, but white at their more recent fractures, protrude on every side through the soil, and force the stunted trees to assume a thousand ungraceful forms. Indeed they appear rather the remains of a nobler forest, crushed by these gigantic masses, than to have sprung up around them. The forest of Sharon, of Arsouf, of Napolose, of Ascalon, or of Jaffa, for it bears all these names, is about six and thirty miles long, and from seven to nine broad. Many recent writers on the subject have exerted themselves to prove that this is the spot whence the leaders of the first crusade derived materials for the construction of their warlike engines; and which Tasso has embellished with so much of romantic fancy. Their arguments appear to be well supported; the situation of the wood of Sharon answers with tolerable precision to that of the Enchanted Forest, which was formerly supposed to have had no existence but in the imagination of the poet; and the idea derives new force from its being the only place within any probable distance from Jerusalem which could have afforded timber for the purposes of the siege. The more the Poem of Tasso is compared with the history of the time, and the geographical localities of Palestine, the more does his scrupulous accuracy become manifest: an accuracy the more surprising when it is remembered how much less of foreign countries or of ancient history was generally known, than in our more enlightened days, and that perhaps few of his readers would have detected or condemned any departure from historical truth. ↩

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§ Note (t), page 290, line 431. Fades not. nor brightens when the Spring returns.

It has already been observed, that this forest is entirely composed of cerrial oak; Quercu Cerris. The trees glowing in a shallow soil, near the sea, and scarcely ever receiving a due poition of moisture, do not attain any great size. Their appearance announces extreme age, yet their height does not exceed twenty-five or thirty feet, while eight or nine inches is the diameter of their stems. Their growth is seldom upright, and their summits affect an orbicular form, like that of trees which have been pollarded. The wood is very hard, the stems are knotty, yet the bark is smoother than that of our English oak: the leaves more shining and less deeply indented, the acorns large, and with a cup unusually wide. M. Paultre observes, that the scales which cover the cup are not rounded, as in our European acorns, but pointed and bent back in a sort of volute, which has acquired for this tree the name of Quercus Crinita. He compares the general appearance ot the forest of Arsouf to the straggling woods on the gravel hills of Lower Burgundy. — See Michaud, Pièces Justificatives. Other writers describe the Quercus Cerris or Turkey oak, and the Quercus Crinita, hairy cupped oak, or Burgundy oak, as distinct species, but the Oriental oaks in particular do not seem to be accurately known. ↩

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§ Note (u), page 29S, line 481. And far before him casts the lifeless prey.

Before whose fury and unmatched force
The awless Lion could not wage the fight,
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard’s hand
— King John.

The writers of the middle ages, not contented that Richard’s surname of Cœur de Lion, should be supposed to have arisen from his bold and warlike chatacter, have fabled that he derived it in a more literal sense, from tearing out the heart of a Lion, with which he was engaged in single combat. The romance of Cœur de Lion says, that Richard on his return from a private pilgrimage to the Holy Land, was taken prisoner by the King of Almayne. The King’s son challenges Richard, and is slain by him. The King’s daughter Margery falls in love with the gallant captive, this her father discovers, and consults with his counsaylleres how to get rid of his enemy. — Ser Eldryd says:

“Ye weten wel, it is no lawe
A Kyng to hange and to drawe.
Ye schal do, be my resoun: Hastely take your lyoun,
And with-holdes him hys meete;
Three dayes that he nought eete;
And Rychard into chaumbyr ye doo,
And lete the lyoun wende hym too: In this manere he schal be slawe.
Than dost thou nought ayeyns the lawe. The lyoun schal hym ther sloo,
Then ait thou wroken off thy foo.

The Princess warns Richard of his danger, and advises him to fly with her

Rychard sayde: “I understande
That wer agayn the lawe of lande,
Away to wende withouten leve:
The Kyng ne woll I nought sо greve.
Off the lyoun ne geve I nought;
Hym to slе now have I thought:
Be pryme, оn the thrydde day,
I geve the hys heite to pray.”
Kevercheves he asked of sylk,
Fourty, whyte as ony mylk:—

These kerchiefs he winds round his arm, and awaits the Lion.

With that com the jaylere,
And other twoo with hym in fere
And the lyon hem among.
Hys pawes was bothe scharp and long.
Rychard cryed: “Help, Jesu!”
The lyon made a gret venu,
And wolde have him al to-rent;
Kyng Rychard thenne besyde he glent,
Upon the brest the lyoun he spurnyd,
That al aboute the lyoun turnyd.
The lyoun was hungry and megre,
And bit his tayl for to be egre:
Faste aboute, on the towes,
Abrod he spredde alle hys powes,
And roynyd lowde, and gapyd wyde.
Kyng Rychard bethought hym that tyde,
What it was best, and to hym sterte,
In at hys throte hys arme he gerte;
Rent out the herte with hys hand,
Lungges, and lyvere, and al that he fand
The lyoun fel ded to the grounde:
Rychard hadde neyther wemme ne wounde.
Ие knelyd doun in that place
And thankyd God off hys grate,
That hym kepte fro schame and harme
He took the herte, al so warme,
And brought it into the halle,
Before the Kyng and hys men alle.

The King is at dinner with his Peers.—Richard presses the blood out of the heart, dips it in the salt and eats it without bread.—The King exclaims

“I wis, as I undyrstande can,
This is a devyl and no man,
That has my stronge lyoun slawe,
The herte out of hys body drawe,
And has it raten with good wylle!
He may be callyd, be ryght skylle,
Kyng i-crystenyd off most renoun,
Stronge Richard Cœur de Lyoun!”

I can well believe that Richard would not have made more difficulty either in killing or eating a lion, than Antar, his rival enemy to the king of beasts. ↩

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§ Note (x), page 296, line 564. Till Heaven in thunder check’d his mad career.

Alasia, or Alice, or as some have called her Adelaïs, Princess of France, and sister to Philip Augustus, was unhappily betrothed in infancy to Richard, afterwards King of England, and was sent to the court of Henry the Second, to be educated for her future husband. When the Princess grew up, Richard demanded his bride, but Henry would not yield her. Richard rebelled against his father, and joined with Philip Augustus, who espoused his quarrel; the armies met at Gisors, and were on the point of coming to an engagement, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Pandulphus, the Pope’s legate, the same to whom King John afterwards surrendered his crown. The impetuous Richard was not to he persuaded out of a quarrel, in which he felt that justice was certainly on his side, though his rebellion was a crime, and in the heat of his passion, he lifted his spear as if to strike the Legate. In the meantime a thunderstorm arose, and the thunderbolt fell between the two armies. This extraordinary circumstance, which may be naturally accounted for by the attractive influence of the polished arms and armour on the electric matter, was regarded as the manifest interposition of offended heaven. A peace was soon concluded; Henry consented to create Richard Duke of Normandy, to acknowledge his right to the succession, which he had wished to alter in behalf of his favourite John, and to give up Alasia at a fixed time. The latter clause he never fulfilled. He also renewed his vow of the Crusade, while Philip Augustus, Richard. and most of the Barons, took or resumed the Cross.

On Richard’s accession, Philip expected that he should immediately marry the Princess; but his attachment appeared to be cooled. Philip resented this slight upon his sister, and the unfortunate lady, after having been the cause of many private altercations, was on the point of seeing herself again made the subject of open war. Richard is however said to have given Philip a satisfactory reason for his change of purpose, in the discovery that his father had detained Alasia from him, on account of a criminal passion which he himself entertained for the young Princess. He gave proofs of her having even borne a son to Henry, and Philip was fain to close the quarrel; and to thank the knightly honour of Richard, which prevented him from making the scandal public. Alasia was afterwards mentioned in the dispute at Messina, but she is never named as a cause of feud in the after-wars of the Kings, though they were undertaken by Philip, on pretext of recovering her dower of Gisors, and the Vexin, which Richard would not yield. ↩

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§ Note (y), page 297, line 582. His name outshine the conquerors of the world.

This extraordinary man was the Abbé Joachim, who after his return from Jerusalem retired to the mountains of Calabria, where he passed for a Prophet. In austerity of manners and life, he affected to emulate St. John the Baptist. His pilgrimage to the Holy Land had been blest with visions, and Christ himself had taught him to understand the Apocalypse, and to read there, as in a faithful history, all that was to pass on earth. The account of him may be found in Hoveden. He at last incurred the censures of the Church, but at the time of Richard’s voyage he was in the full odour of sanctity, and the Monarch’s superstition was piqued to see the fancied saint. He did not however go to Calabria, but sent for Joachim to Messina, where he was questioned as to the result of the Crusade. Joachim said that Saladine was one of the seven heads of the Dragon in the Apocalypse, and predicted that Jerusalem should be delivered seven years after the conquest of the Soldan. “Why then,” said Richard, “should wo go so soon?” “Your arrival,” replied the Hermit, “is very necessary: God will give you the victory over his enemies and make your name celebrated above the Princes of the Earth. This reply, which was more flattering to the vanity of Richard than to the impatience of the Crusaders, gave especial umbrage to Philip, and possibly it was less his superiority to the superstition of his age, than his jealousy of the glory announced to his rival, which made him affect to despise the prophet and his predictions. ↩

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§ Note (z), page 297, line 589. Placed at his father’s feet, should аsk forgiveness still.

Richardthe First bequeathed his heart to his favourite city of Rouen, and it was buried in the Cathedral (begun by his father and continued under his reign), at the right side of the altar. On the other side was the body of Henry le Jeune, his elder brother, who died before Henry the Second. Richard, however, still penitent for his youthful rebellion, gave strict orders that his body should be buried at the feet of his father, in the Monastery ot Fontevraud, or the Fountain of St.Everard, founded by Henry II. It is there that the statue exists from which the portraits of Richard have been taken. At Rouen, the stone with the inscription to his memory has been removed, I believe when the present altar was erected, but the Lion-heart still rests beneath. ↩

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§ Note (aa), page 301, line 671. Voluptuous lamps illume the gaudy flowers.

Aboulfeda. The position of the armies is also historical. ↩

Book VIII

§ Note (a), page 308, line 18. Like wintry snows the plumy arrows fly.

Froissart compares the flight of the English arrows, headed by the white goose feather, to a shower of snow. ↩

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§ Note (b), page 314, line 147. Bade thousands toil Kahira’s walls to frame.

Amrou, a general of the Caliph Omar, won Egypt from the Emperor Heraclius, and in the place where he encamped (near to Babylon, which still existed) he built a new town, called Mars Fostat, the City of Tents, in which the governor of the province afterwards resided, till Egypt was conquered by Djouhar, in the name of Moez, the Fatimite Caliph who reigned in Africa. Djouhar awaited in his camp the arrival of his master. He caused it to be surrounded with a strong wall, which was soon filled with palaces and mosques, and grew into a town, which he called Kahira, or Al Kahira, the Victorious (corrupted by the Christians into Cairo), and Mars Fostat thenceforward went by the name of Old Kahira. Saladine, after his establishment in Egypt, determined to build a wall, which should enclose both the new and old town. This labour was continued during his life principally under the eye of Karacous, who was governor of Kahira, till summoned to the defence of Acre: but the successors of the Soldan neglected to complete it. Saladine also raised a superb mosque over the tomb of the Imam Shafei, founder of one of the principal orthodox sects of Islam, and added to it an hospital for the poor, and a college for theology, history, poetry, medicine, and arithmetic; at the same time he constructed the Castle of Kahira, or the Castle of the Mountain, the only place of defence which now exists in Egypt. It was celebrated for its extent and magnificence, and the ruins which still remain are interesting. The arches are pointed, Joseph’s Well is another monument of the reign of Saladine, and was called after him, for the Soldan was proud of his name of Yusuf, or Joseph, which he inherited from his grandfather, and he loved to trace his descent from the Patriarch himself. — See l’Histoire de Saladine, &c. ↩

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§ Note (c), page 315, line 176. Forever bears the name of Saladine.

This Knight has been called the Regulus of France, and it is related that the Soldan’s gifts were so munificent, as to enable him to build on his return the Château de Jour in Burgundy; on its roof are twо little armed figures, which are said to be those of Saladine and Anglure. The same story is also told of the castle of Anglure in Lorraine, but I leave it to the French genealogists to determine their rival-claims. ↩

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§ Note (d) page 316, hne 212. With solemn dirges seek St. Hilda’s fane. The first of these was Loid William de Percy, surnamed Algernons, и ho died at Mountjoy; the second was William de Plesset, Eail of Warwick, who mai ned Maud, sister of Agnes de Percy, and who died « ithout issue in Palestine, in 1184. ↩

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§ Note (e), page 317, line 231. As when by him Iconium’s Prince was slain.

Melkinus, the same whom the history of the Arabs calls Kaisar Schah, son of Kilidge Arselan, and nephew to Saladine by marriage. After vauous skirmishes and one successful battle against the treacherous Sultan of Iconium, Frederic Barbarossa stormed and took his capital. Melkinus was slain in one of the combats, I believe by the hand of the young Frederic, whose valour was often conspicuous.#160;↩

Note (f), page 308, line 26O. And breathes from neighbouring hills th’ inspiring gale.

Damascus has been often admired for the beauty of its situation and gardens. A river, which falls roaring from the mountains, rolls over a gold-coloured sand, and spreads coolness and fertility in the valley of Abennessage, or the “Vale of Violets.” It had so long been celebrated for its delightful situation, that Mahommed, who affected great temperance, refused to enter it, declaring “that there was but one Paradise destined to man, and that he waa determined not to take his in this world!” ↩

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§ Note (g), page 319, line 282. And war she never sought, but well sustain’d.

Saleh, the son and rightful heir of Noureddin, was but six years old when his father died, and fled for protection from Saladine to his uncle the Sultan of Mosul. Saladine was successful in every campaign, and Saleh, who feared to he given up to the victor, endeavoured to make peace with him. After the treaty was signed, and Saladine was in consequence preparing to withdraw his army from the siege of Aleppo, a young Princess arrived in the camp, escorted by a great number of slaves. She endeavoured to throw herself at the feet of the Soldan, but he who recognised the daughter of Noureddin, raised her, and inquired what she wished. She asked the safety of her brother, and the restitution of the fortress of Ezaz, which Saladine had recently won by a sharp siege. He granted her request with courtesy, and added many valuable presents. Some time after this, when Saleh and his protector the King of Mosul were both dead, Saladine continued the war; and Mazoud, son of the latter, being besieged in his capital, had recourse to the same means which had before moved the pity and blunted the sword of the conqueror. He sent the daughter of Noureddin, accompanied by his own mother and many noble ladies, to implore again the clemency of Saladine, and the restoration of the towns of Mesopotamia. This step was considered as a mark of the greatest submission, and from the humanity and generosity of the Sultan, its success was confidently anticipated. But Mazoud deceived himself. Saladine had found him too troublesome an enemy to let slip his prey in the very moment of success. He received the Sultanas with kindness, and with all the honours due to their rank; but intreaties and tears were vain; he was inflexible for the first time. On this subject M. Marin observes, “that to the political spirit of the present times it would appear surprising that a hero should yield his conquests at the tears of a few women, for they asked no less than the kingdom of Mesopotamia, Nevertheless, the manners of a nation which we are accustomed to call barbarous, caused the firmness of the Soldan to be regarded as an act of the greatest harshnesss. Many Doctors of the Law, although his subjects, dared publicly to reproach him in their writings, and it is remarkable that he himself repented of what he considered an act of inhumanity.” I have less authority for the martial character of the daughter of Noureddin. At the death of Baldwin the Third this noble Arab had replied to those who counselled him to invade Judea, “that it was inhuman to molest the grief of a people that deplored its master, and that he should believe his own glory tarnished, by the attack of those who were not in a condition of defence;” but when Noureddin himself died, Amalric did not think it necessary to imitate his generosity. His invasion of Syria, however, had not the success which he had anticipated. At Paneas or Belinas (Cesarea of Philippa), he was stopped by a woman. The widow of the Atabeg who had been its governor, defended the place with such spirit, that he was glad to hide his retreat by permitting it to he рurchased. I have ventured to give this exploit to Almahide. Saladme married either the daughter οf the widow of Noureddin, but it is uncertain which. ↩

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§ Note (h), page 320 line 293. By valour as by vows forbid to yield.

The Knights Templar wore the red cross on the shoulder, like the other knights, but none on the back, “less the sign of the cross should ever be seen to fly.” They were however forbidden by their vows, ever to turn their backs on the enemy, as were also tht Knights Hospitaller, and the Teutonic Order. ↩

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§ Note (i), page 321, line 315. There Leicester first his father’s banner spread.

It was in this battle that Robert Fitz Parnel first unfolded the banner of his house, which on his father’s death became his by inheritance. ↩

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§ Note, page 321. line 348. Proud of great Odard’s far-descended sword.

Odard, the eldest of five brethren, who came to England with Hugh Lupus, nephew to the Conqueror, is the Patriarch of the Duttons, Lords Sherbourne. In 166r Odard’s sword was in possession of the ladye Elinour, Viscountess Kilmorey, sole heiress of Thomas Dutton; having past from hand to hand like Agamemnon’s sceptre.

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§ Note (k), page 321, line 322. And Pelham’s youthful pride—no braver name.

The family of Pelham, now Earls of Chichester, was distinguished in England before the Conquest. John de Pelham, afterwards knighted, was one of those who claimed the honour of taking King John of France prisoner, at the battle of Poitiers, the King having surrendered his sword to him and Sir Roger La Warr. For this achievement the crampet, or chape of the sword, was adjudged to Sir Roger La Warr, and the buckle of the King’s belt to Sir John de Pelbam, who quartered it in his arms. It is also the occasional crest of the Earls of Chichester. ↩

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§ Note (l), page 322, line 329. Who once unknown his Sovereign’s spear engaged.

See the Romance of Cœur de Lion. Sir Thomas Multon, and Sir Fulk D’Oyley, are, next to Richard himself, the heroes of this poem, but I do not find their names in the history of the times. ↩

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§ Note (m), page 322, line 340 To D’Oyley’s house, enraged to vengeance flies.

It has already been stated, that the House of Perceval, or Yvery, can trace its genealogy beyond the Conquest. Two of the family came to England with William, one of whom, Roger, was brother in arms with Robert D’Oyley, a noble Norman, and the friends bound themselves by mutual oaths to share each other’s fortunes. The conqueror rewarded the services of D’Oyley with the only daughter and heir of Wigod de Wallingford, a potent Saxon lord, and in virtue ot the agreement, Roger de Yvery obtained of his friend one of the honours, thenceforward called the Barony of Yvery in Oxfordshire. Roger had besides large possessions, and was Chief Butler of England, while some of his family held the same office in Normandy. In 1074, in conjunction with Robert D’Oyley, he founded the Church of St. George, in the Castle of Oxford, and in 1077, he also founded a Benedictine Monastery to the Virgin, near the Castle of Yvery, not far from Evreux in Normandy.

Richard Lovel, or Perceval, attended Richard to the Holy Land, and held a principal command in his army; but, being disabled by the loss of his leg, returned to England. ↩

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§ Note (n), page 324, line 380. Bravest and first, usurps the vacant rein.

Many were the Emirs that perished at the battle of Arsouf but none were more regretted than a Captain of the Soldan’s Mamlukes, whose heroic bravery is celebrated by the Arabic historians. Not one of the Saracen warriors was more prompt to meet the hostile sword, he was always the first to succour his friends, and was himself never in need of their assistance. After his fall, the Moslems ran to raise him: “but he was already among the inhabitants of Неaven — Michaud. ↩

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§ Note (о), page 326, line 426. Of rout or conquest, swept unheeded by.

It ought to be had in continual remembrance, that the spirit of fanaticism was not confined to the crusaders; and that the name of “The Holy War” was mutually employed by Musulmans and Christians. While the Gospel was carried in state before the leader of the Christians, the Koran, a Koran written under the auspices, if not by the hand of the Caliph Omar, was borne with equal ceremony in the ranks of Saladine, who would pause upon the field of battle to perform his stated prayers, or hear a chapter of the sacred volume. ↩

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§ Note (p), page 328, line 466. And pining, met the voluntary doom.

The brave Hangest de Coucy was wounded to death at the battle of Arsouf. In a song which has been preserved he bade Adieu to France, saying that he sought the Holy Land in quest of three things most dear to a Knight: Le Paradis, la gloire, et l’amour de sa mie. The rest of his story is in the chronicles of the times. It bears a strong resemblance to that of the unfortunate Troubadour, William de Cabestaing, as well as to one of the Novelle of Boccaccio. ↩

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§ Note (q), page 329, line 493. Gournay and Ponthieu; and a warrior drest.

All these warriors, as well as those named hereafter, are mentioned among the noble French or Normans, most of whom perished in the Crusade. The flight of the Count of Dreux, brother to the Bishop of Beauvais, is in Vinesauf, as well as the valour of the Count of St. Paul, who had many horses killed under him. ↩

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§ Note (r), page 329, line 503. A race of sovereigns to Byzantium’s throne.

Josceline de Courtenay, third Count of Edessa, was deprived of that principality by the Soldan, and his fate, subsequent to the taking of Jerusalem, is unknown. He left ло male issue. The family of Courtenay, in the beginning of the thirteenth century, gave three Emperors to Constantinople; but this House, after having been raised to unexampled honours in Asia, fell, at least in France, into a decline as rapid as its elevation had been wonderful. The passion for crusading seems to have touched almost every branch of this noble family, und many were the martyrs whom it gave to the holy cause. Reginald de Courtenay, a very powerful peer, was in Palestine with Louis the Seventh, and was among those who vindicated the character of Eleunor of Guyenne, when charged by her husband with nuptial infidelity. He afterwards came to England with Henry the Second, and promoted his marriage with the divorced Queen. The prophetic motto of Courtenay seems to mourn for ever its departed grandeur, Ubi lapsus. Quid feci? ↩

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§ Note (s), page 329, line 509. They look’d to Tyre’s relentless Prince in vain.

Robert, Lord of Neuburg, is, as Vinesauf has observed. immortalized by his liberalities. During the famine at Acre, the generosity of many of the wealthier Knights saved the lives of thousands. Among these Robert de Neuburg was distinguished. The others are Walkelin Earl of Ferrers, Robert Trusebot, Henry, Count of Champagne, Josceline de Montoirs, the Count of Clermont and Hubert Bishop of Salisbury. Conrad of Montferrat bears the odium of having at least increased this famine by withholding the provisions which it was in his power to furnish from Tyre; and Vinesauf devotes no less than twelve sections to s description of its horrors, concluding each with execrations against the obnoxious Marquis, towards whom, indeed, he never omits any opportunity of shewing his detestation. But while he gives so much space to the especial abuse of Conrad, he seems to have hated Leopold so completely as to wish to rob him even of the immortality of infamy, and notwithstanding his many gallant actions in the Crusade, he never once names, even in a catalogue, that arch-enemy of his own heroic sovereign. He does indeed say that it was an addition to the grief of the English, that Richard was captive in Osterricia, rather than in Germany; but even there he never hints that the Duke had been in Palestine. ↩

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§ Note, page 330, line 513. His lineal pride, and Montmorency’s name.

The Montmorencies derive their name from an incident in the time of Charles Martel. A Moor having given a challenge to single combat, Martel selected Lysoi to meet him. After a day’s hard fighting in lists, Lysoi was victorious, and cried out, Mon maure est occis, or mon maure occis, now corrupted into Montmorenci. Of the French cavaliers who fell at Acre or in the Crusade, none was more regretted than the young Joscelin de Montmorenci; Madame Cottin has made him a principal character in her Mathilde.

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§ Note (t), page 331, line 538. Now lend thy aid, or Christendom is lost.

“Now, O, St. George! if thou dost desert us Christendom must perish.”—The vision of St. George is also historical. M. Michaud thinks it was the green knight that was mistaken for him; but supernatural assistance was seldom wanting in the battles of the crusades. M. Mailly seems to have little doubt that the band of martyrs who came to assist their living brethren at Antioch in the first of their expeditions were actually seen on that occasion, that is, that they were a troop drest up by the priests to excite the enthusiasm of the rest. ↩

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§ Note (u), page 332, line 573. And infant cries are check’d by sudden fear.

Richard continued to be the terror of the East, and was celebrated by the Saracens and Turks in their proverbs, long after the Crusades. If a child cried, the nurse frightened it into silence with the threat that Richard was coming; and if a horse started, the rider exclaimed, “what! dost thou see King Richard?” In like manner Saladine became the hero of the West, and the Saracen’s Head is not yet obliterated from our sign-boards. ↩

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§ Note (x), page 334, line 625. And in the press was beauteous Favel slain.

The Saracens, who saw their sovereign unhorsed, interrupted the combat. The death of Favel has had the honour to be frequently mentioned by the poets who have spoken of Richard; and among others by Drayton. Vinesauf says that his velocity was incomparable. The romance states that Favel and Lyard were both among the spoils of Cyprus: but as Normandy was celebrated for its horses, its capital having given its name to the roan steeds still so common in that province, I have ventured to make Lyard a Norman. It was the coal-black charger of Richard which the Saracens declared to be a devil. The raven upon Lyard’s head is from the romance. ↩

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§ Note (y), page 347, line 911. And thou young Fatimite, far hence remove.

Aladin, being a Persian, was probably a Shiite, or Fatimite; that is, a Mahommedan of the sect of Ali. The orthodox Musulmans hold these sectaries in still greater detestation than either Christians or Idolaters, and believe them to be farther from paradise. As one of the earliest exploits of Saladine was the suppression of the Egyptian or Fatimite Caliphs, and as the Soldan prided himself on his orthodoxy, none of the house of Ayoub were likely to look with complacency on the worshippers of Ali ↩

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§ Note (z), page 347, line 914. E’en the rude conqueror spares the haram walls?

The Mohammedan nations, barbarians as they are, have at least one refinement unknown to Greece or Rome. The haram of the monarch is sacred, and all who can find refuge therein. The respect paid to the sanctity of the haram is well illustrated in “Anastasius,” in the war between the Beys of Cairo. ↩

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§ Note, page 348, line 948. By the dread bridge and endless flames of hell.

The bridge of Al Sirat, which lies over the midst of hell, and which the souls, both of the just and unjust, will be obliged to pass. This bridge is finer than a hair, and sharper than the edge of a sword, and is besides beset with thorns and brambles. Nevertheless the good will pass over it with the rapidity of lightning, whereas the wicked will soon miss their footing, and fall headlong into hell. The orthodox Mahommedans maintain that the torments of hell are of eternal duration, — Sale’s Koran—Preliminary Discourse.