Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/376

344   “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.

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!