“And sweet and far, as from a star,
Replied a voice which shall not cease,
Till, drowning all the noise of war,
It sings the blessed song of peace!”
So to me, in a doubtful day
Of chill and slowly greening spring,
Low stooping from the cloudy gray,
The wild-birds sang or seemed to sing.
They vanished in the misty air,
The song went with them in their flight;
But lo! they left the sunset fair,
And in the evening there was light.
THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA
A LEGEND OF “THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE,” A. D. 1154–1864
A strong and mighty Angel,
Calm, terrible, and bright,
The cross in blended red and blue
Upon his mantle white!
Two captives by him kneeling,
Each on his broken chain,
Sang praise to God who raiseth
The dead to life again!
Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,
“Wear this,” the Angel said;
“Take thou, O Freedom’s priest, its sign,—
The white, the blue, and red.”
Then rose up John de Matha
In the strength the Lord Christ gave,
And begged through all the land of France
The ransom of the slave.
The gates of tower and castle
Before him open flew,
The drawbridge at his coming fell,
The door-bolt backward drew.
For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.
At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed,
Freighted with seven-score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.
But, torn by Paynim hatred,
Her sails in tatters hung;
And on the wild waves, rudderless,
A shattered hulk she swung.
“God save us!” cried the captain,
“For naught can man avail;
Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks
Her rudder and her sail!
“Behind us are the Moormen;
At sea we sink or strand:
There ’s death upon the water,
There ’s death upon the land!”
Then up spake John de Matha:
“God’s errands never fail!
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail.”
They raised the cross-wrought mantle
The blue, the white, the red;
And straight before the wind off-shore
The ship of Freedom sped.
“God help us!” cried the seamen,
“For vain is mortal skill:
The good ship on a stormy sea
Is drifting at its will.”
Then up spake John de Matha:
“My mariners, never fear!
The Lord whose breath has filled her sail
May well our vessel steer!”
So on through storm and darkness
They drove for weary hours;
And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia’s friendly towers.
And on the walls the watchers
The ship of mercy knew,—
They knew far off its holy cross,
The red, the white, and blue.
And the bells in all the steeples
Rang out in glad accord,
To welcome home to Christian soil
The ransomed of the Lord.
So runs the ancient legend
By bard and painter told;
And lo! the cycle rounds again,
The new is as the old!
