The Knight Of Intercession

In ancient days, so saith an old Romaunt,
There lived a knight, brave, rich, and nobly born,
Withal pure-hearted as a saint, whose love
His ladye spurned; not that she loved him not,
Although she said so, but because she saw
He put God higher than all human claims
Of love and reverence.  So she bad him go,
And spurned him for a wicked pride: and he,
Not caring any more to dwell with men
In open converse, left his ancient halls
And things of wealth and state, which men hold dear,
And rode through many lands for many a day,
Doing true devoir as a noble knight.
None knew him, for he lived with visor down;
His harness of plain steel revealed no sign
Of rank or name; nor bore he in his helm
Token or favour; only on his shield
A dark cross, as of mourning.  On he rode;
And ever as he wrought a gallant deed,
And man or maiden asked him, 'How may I
Repay thy service?' never aught said he
Save, 'Pray for Her!' and parted, still in quest
Of fresh occasion, and for guerdon still
Took nothing; only came the self-same voice
From the closed helm in answer: 'Pray for Her!'
  And so the captive freed did pray for Her;
The rescued maiden prayed; the widow prayed,
With all her wrongs avenged; the poor and rich,
Each for the service they received from him,
Did pray for Her.  The little children lost
In the wild wood, and found by him, and saved
From wolf or robber, lifting trustful eyes
Prayed also: and the angels went and came,
Bearing those prayers, and bringing blessings down
And so she prospered much in all her pride.
  The days passed on; and on the warrior rode —
The Knight of Intercession: and his deeds
Made the plain harness famous in the lands;
And neither ceased those grateful hearts to pray,
Nor she to prosper.
                    Came a day at last,
Whereon a certain prince, with all his host,
Did battle for his kingdom; and the foe
Had well-nigh driven back his last essay,
And won the city.  Mothers, sisters, wives,
Wringing their frantic hands upon the towers,
Wept for the coming issue, death or shame.
Then on a sudden rode into the fray
The nameless knight: the foremost foe drew back
Before his onset; then with terrible blows
He clave a bloody pathway to their chief,
And bore him down, and slew him, and pressed on
To win the standard.  So the battle changed;
The prince and all his warriors took fresh heart,
And drove their foemen backward toward the sea,
And overthrew them.  When the fight was done,
The prince with all his nobles came to thank
The saviour of his kingdom.  But he lay
Wounded upon the standard he had won;
A lance was in his breast, and through the helm
He was sore smitten; and at last was seen
Through the raised visor the long-hidden face,
Sad, pale, and noble.  Then the prince burst forth:
'Sir Knight, what guerdon wilt thou for thine aid?
Certes, whatever thou shalt ask is thine,
E'en to the one half of my realm!' And so
The nobles prayed him; and their ladies came
And wept their thanks; and all in that great town —
The rich and poor, the old and young — came there,
Beseeching him with tears of joy, that he
Would name some guerdon.  And the knight looked round;
O'er his pale visage moved a moment's smile —
Like the last tinge of sunset on a height —
Tender and holy, moving men to tears;
And smiling thus, he murmured, 'Pray for Her!'
Then with closed eyes he lay a little space,
And the pale face grew paler, and his head
Grew heavier on the knees of him whose hands
Had caught him falling.  Yet once more the eyes
Were opened, and the noble head was raised,
And once more, while his upward wistful gaze
Sought the far heav'n, he murmured, 'Pray for Her!'
And in the look and in the prayer he died.
  And in that kingdom never passed a day,
But prince, knights, nobles, ladies, young and old,
And rich and poor, at morn and evensong,
Did evermore henceforward pray for Her.

  Ere long there came unto the ladye's bower
A nameless messenger. 'I come,' said he,
'Ladye, I come from one who loved the well,
And whom thou lovest!' Then the ladye flushed,
And but he said 'who loved.' and not 'who loves,'
And so awoke a terror in her breast,
Which still was mindful of the love it spurned,
She would have straight dismissed him.  Still she feigned,
And dallying with her fear she answered him
Lightly and falsely: 'Comest thou from him,
The stately earl of yonder proud domain,
Who bids me make him and his fair broad lands
Mine own?'  He answered sternly, 'Not from him;
His heart is narrow, though his lands are broad!'
'Perchance thou comest from the courtly knight
Who wears my glove for crest, my woven scarf
Across his gilded harness?'  'Not from him;
His sword is rusty, though he rides in gold!'
'Thou comest then, I wot, from him who rules
In yonder city, treads his palace floors,
And sighs for me?'  He answered, 'Not from him;
His name is noble, but his soul is mean!'
  So thrice she questioned, hovering round her fear,
As one who stays and lingers at a door
Wistful, yet dreads to enter.  So she paused:
Then with changed voice demanded, 'Comest thou—?'
But here she sickened, for she felt his eyes
Looked sadly on her, seeing through her soul,
Right to the inner trouble, undeceived
By outward seeming.  Then she summoned strength,
And asked in accents tremulous and low,
Which grew in force and passion — as a stone,
Loosed from a hill-side, rolls towards the vale,
Slowly at first, but gathering power and speed
Falls wildly — 'Comest thou from him, my knight,
Nameless but famous, unknown but renowned,
In plain steel armour, with his visor down,
Yet winning noblest praise in all the lands;
Who knew not that I loved him even then
When I was scornfullest, whom yet I love,
Whom I love on for ever? If from him
Thou comest, get thee back and tell him all!
Go tell him I repent me of my pride;
Tell him I wait for him, and spend my heart
In waiting; tell him that I never loved
And never shall love other till I die!
Speak! comest thou from him?'
                            He said, 'From him.'
And more the trembling passion of her frame,
The close-clasped hands, the cheek now red, now pale,
And more the pleading hunger of her eyes,
Than her quick asking, moved him to reply
Softly, and not in wrath, 'I come from him,
Ladye — from him who cannot come to thee;
For now that visor closed is closed no more,
For men have looked beneath it; and he sleeps
In that plain harness, never more to rise
Till God shall wake him.  In a prayer he died,
That all he saved and served should pray for thee.
So until death, at morn and evensong,
True hearts and hands are lifted up for thee,
That all things of the earth, and all of heaven,
In all thy goings out and comings in,
May bless thee always, even to the end.
Farewell! so pray a thousand hearts for thee;
So shall I pray for ever unto death:
Farewell!'
          She heard him speechless to the close,
And speechless still she saw him pass away:
'Death,' and 'Farewell,' the last words on his lips,
And in her ears.  Oh, how they rose and fell
Alternate, like a cadence of despair!
Death and Farewell! Farewell and Death! in each
A hopeless issue, speaking not of him
Who said them, but of him from whom he came —
Her own true knight, her noble, peerless knight:
Death and Farewell! and then it seemed to her
As though she too must die.
                            Her maidens came
And found her swooning.
                        But she did not die:
She woke again to hate the thought of life,
Yet fearing death.  She stood as one might stand,
A pilgrim for whose steps is no return,
With choice of two ways: one across a wild
Gloomy and drear, the other through a vale
With unknown terrors lurking in its depths,
More drear because unknown.  E'en so she looked
On life and deth: the one a darkened path,
Reft of the sun which might have shone on her;
So darkened now, that ever and anon
Stretching her hopeless hands out in the dark
Towards that other, 'Oh, that I might die!'
She cried — still conscious that she dared not die.
  Then was it well for her that late and soon,
From great and noble, from the small and mean —
The sad and needy, and the rich and glad —
From little children and hoar-headed men —
The voice of intercession ever rose,
Like incense, unto Him, 'Who heareth prayer.'
For even while He smote her with a sense
Of hopelessness and anguish — even then
He wrought within her unto final good.
Crushing her pride, He bade her stoop and raise
That Cross she had refused of lowly fear,
And love unselfish.
                      Then He gave her peace —
Because her heart had learned to rest on Him —
His perfect peace: and with rejoicing flight,
The great good angels of a thousand prayers —
The prayers still rising morn and eve for her —
Sped downwards at commandment of their King,
And tended her with constant service; filled
Her mind with holy thoughts and pure desires
And glorious hopes.  And so it was that she,
Who looked on life and death with hate and fear,
Saw in her life a happy pilgrimage
On toward a better country, which she sought
With longing; and in death that blessed stream,
Ordained to bear the children of the Lord
Beyond the shadowy twilight of this world,
Into the glory of the perfect day.