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To Lincoln Steffens
SOMEWHERE I read a strange, old, rusty tale | |
| Smelling of war; most curiously named | |
| The Mad Recreant Knight of the West. | |
| Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate, | |
| Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly | 5 |
| Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong | |
| Harried the weak … | |
| Long past, long past, praise God, | |
| In these fair, peaceful, happy days. | |
| |
| The Tale: | 10 |
| Eastward the Huns break border, | |
| Surf on a rotten dyke; | |
| They have murdered the Eastern Warder | |
| (His head on a pike). | |
| “Arm thee, arm thee, my father! | 15 |
| Swift rides the Goddes-bane, | |
| And the high nobles gather | |
| On the plain!” | |
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| “O blind world-wrath!” cried Sangar, | |
| “Greatly I killed in youth; | 20 |
| I dreamed men had done with anger | |
| Through Goddes truth!” | |
| Smiled the boy then in faint scorn, | |
| Hard with the battle-thrill; | |
| “Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn | 25 |
| And shrill!” | |
| |
| He has bowed to the voice stentorian, | |
| Sick with thought of the grave— | |
| He has called for his battered motion | |
| And his scarred glaive. | 30 |
| On the boy’s helm a glove | |
| Of the Duke’s daughter— | |
| In his eyes splendor of love | |
| And slaughter. | |
| |
| Hideous the Hun advances | 35 |
| Like a sea-tide on sand; | |
| Unyielding, the haughty lances | |
| Make dauntless stand. | |
| And ever amid the clangor, | |
| Butchering Hun and Hun, | 40 |
| With sorrowful face rides Sangar | |
| And his son.… | |
| |
| Broken is the wild invader | |
| (Sullied, the whole world’s fountains); | |
| They have penned the murderous raider | 45 |
| With his back to the mountains. | |
| Yet though what had been mead | |
| Is now a bloody lake, | |
| Still drink swords where men bleed, | |
| Nor slake. | 50 |
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| Now leaps one into the press— | |
| The hell ’twixt front and front— | |
| Sangar, bloody and torn of dress | |
| (He has borne the brunt). | |
| “Hold!” cries, “Peace! God’s peace! | 55 |
| Heed ye what Christus says—” | |
| And the wild battle gave surcease | |
| In amaze. | |
| |
| “When will ye cast out hate? | |
| Brothers—my mad, mad brothers— | 60 |
| Mercy, ere it be too late, | |
| These are sons of your mothers. | |
| For sake of Him who died on Tree, | |
| Who of all creatures, loved the least—” | |
| “Blasphemer! God of Battles, He!” | 65 |
| Cried a priest. | |
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| “Peace!” and with his two hands | |
| Has broken in twain his glaive. | |
| Weaponless, smiling he stands— | |
| (Coward or brave?) | 70 |
| “Traitor!” howls one rank, “Think ye | |
| The Hun be our brother?” | |
| And “Fear we to die, craven, think ye?” | |
| The other. | |
| |
| Then sprang his son to his side, | 75 |
| His lips with slaver were wet, | |
| For he had felt how men died | |
| And was lustful yet; | |
| (On his bent helm a glove | |
| Of the Duke’s daughter, | 80 |
| In his eyes splendor of love | |
| And slaughter)— | |
| |
| Shouting, “Father no more of mine! | |
| Shameful old man—abhorr’d, | |
| First traitor of all our line!” | 85 |
| Up the two-handed sword. | |
| He smote—fell Sangar—and then | |
| Screaming, red, the boy ran | |
| Straight at the foe, and again | |
| Hell began.… | 90 |
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| Oh, there was joy in Heaven when Sangar came. | |
| Sweet Mary wept, and bathed and bound his wounds, | |
| And God the Father healed him of despair, | |
| And Jesus gripped his hand, and laughed and laughed.… | |
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