Richard, the Lion-hearted,
Parting for Palestine,
In lone St. Mary's Abbey,
Knelt at Our Lady's shrine;
And begged that the Abbot's blessing,
And the monks' prevailing prayer,
Might follow him over the waters,
And the deserts hot and bare.
"God be praised!" quoth the Abbot,
"By Holy Rood I swear
That at matins and sext and compline,
"Through the church's sacred air,
Petitions shall rise to Heaven
That the wave and the shore may be
Safe for our Sovereign, Richard,
Till Conqueror home comes he!"
The moon of another April
Shone on the Eastern main;
And sailing by rocky Cyprus,
The Holy Land to gain,
Were the King and his Norman nobles—
When out of the south there blew
The blast of the dread sirocco—
And away the good ship flew!
Into the blinding darkness,
Into the howling storm,
While the salt spray wreathed before her
A beckoning, demon form.
"Mary, have mercy!" the sailors
Shrieked as the masts went down;
"Bitter is death," sighed the nobles,
"So near to our glory's crown!'
Leaning over the bulwarks,
Richard, risen from rest,
With his white brow bared to the tempest,
And his blue eyes turned to the West,
Cried, in a voice of anguish
That rung o'er the foaming sea,
"Would God it were time for matins,
And the gray monks prayed for me!"
Meanwhile, on the fields of England
The dew distilled its balm,
And the lone Cistercian Abbey
Slept in the midnight calm—
Till the moon had passed the zenith,
And the watch of morning fell,
When, over meadow and moorland,
Rung clear the matin-bell.
Then, through the silent cloisters,
And under the arches dim,
Abbot, and monk, and prior,
Chanting a holy hymn,—
While the flame of the stone-hewn cressets
Flared with its rise and fall,
And the Virgin smiled serenely
From her niche in the lofty wall,—
Entered the aisle to the altar,
And knelt with the fervent prayer
That still, for their Sovereign, Richard,
The winds might be soft and fair.
"Bless him, O Lord," quoth the Abbot,
"And bring him in peace again
With the sign of our faith triumphant!"
And the monks said low, "Amen!"
That moment, over the tempest,
A lull stole out of the West,
And the ship rocked, light as a sea-bird
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
"Lord of my life," cried Richard,
"Thine shall the glory be!
I know 't is the hour for matins,
And the gray monks pray for me!"