Classic Poem

1.

Wild were the tales which fabling monks of old
Devised to swell their hero's holy fame,
When in the noble army they enroll'd
St. George's doubtful name.
Of arrows and of spears they told,
Which fell rebated from his mortal mould;
And how the burning, fiery furnace blast
To him came tempered like a summer breeze,
When at the hour of evening it hath past
O'er gurgling tanks, and groves of lemon-trees:
And how the reverential flame,
Condensing like a garb of honor, play'd
In gorgeous folds around his glorious frame;
And how the Heathen, in their frantic strife,
With water then alike in vain essay'd
His inextinguishable life.

2.

What marvel if the Christian Knight
Thus for his dear Redeemer's sake
Defied the purpled Pagan's might?
Such boldness well might he partake,
For he, beside the Libyan lake
Silene, with the Infernal King
Had coped in actual fight.
The old Dragon on terrific wing
Assail'd him there with Stygian string,
And arrowy tongue, and potent breath,
Exhaling pestilence and death.
Dauntless in faith the Champion stood,
Opposed against the rage of Hell
The Red-Cross shield, and wielding well
His sword, the strife pursued:
First with a wide and rending wound
Brought the maim'd monster to the ground,
Then, pressing with victorious heel
Upon his scaly neck subdued,
Plunged and replunged the searching steel,
Till from the shameful overthrow,
Howling, the incarnate Demon fled,
And left that form untenanted,
And hid in Hell his humbled head,
Still trembling in the realm below,
At thought of that tremendous foe.

3.

Such tales monastic fablers taught;
Their kindred strain the minstrels caught
A web of finer texture they
Wrought in the rich, romantic lay;
Of magic caves and woods they sung,
Where Kalyb nursed the boy divine,
And how those woods and caverns rung
With cries from many a demon tongue,
When, breaking from the witch's cell,
He bound her in her own strong spell; —
And of the bowers of Ormandine,
Where, thrall'd by art, St. David lay,
Sleeping inglorious years away,
Till our St. George, with happier arm
Released him, and dissolved the charm,
But most the minstrels loved to tell
Of that portentous day
When Sabra at the stake was bound,
Her brow with sweetest garlands crown'd,
The Egyptian Dragon's prey;
And how for her the English knight,
Invincible at such a sight,
Engaged that fiendish beast in fight,
And o'er the monster, triple-scaled,
The good sword Askalon prevail'd.

4.

Such legends monks and minstrels feign'd,
And easily the wondrous tales obtain'd,
In those dark days, belief;
Shrines to the Saint were rear'd, and temples rose
And states and kingdoms for their patron chose
The Cappadocian Chief.
Full soon his sainted name hath won
In fields of war a wide renown;
Spain saw the Moors confounded fly,
Before the well-known slaughter cry,
St. George for Aragon!
And when the Catalans pursued
Their vengeful way with fire and blood,
The Turk and treacherous Greek were dearly taught
That all-appalling shout,
For them with rage and ruin fraught
In many a dolorous rout.
'Twas in this heavenly Guardian's trusted strength,
That Malta's old heroic knights defied
The Ottoman in all his power and pride.
Repulsed from her immortal walls at length,
The baffled Misbeliever turn'd with shame;
And when in after years in dreams he heard
That all-too-well remembered battle-word,
Woke starting at St. George's dreadful name,
And felt cold sweats of fear suffuse his trembling frame.

5.

But thou, O England! to that sainted name
Hast given its proudest praise, its loftiest fame.
Witness the field of Cressy, on that day,
When volleying thunders roll'd unheard on high;
For, in that memorable fray,
Broken, confused, and scatter'd in dismay,
France had ears only for the Conqueror's cry,
St George, St. George for England! St. George and Victory!
Bear witness, Poictiers! where again the foe
From that same hand received his overthrow.
In vain essay'd, Mont Joye St. Denis rang
From many a boastful tongue,
And many a hopeful heart in onset brave;
Their courage in the shock of battle quail'd,
His dread reponse when sable Edward gave,
And England and St. George again prevail'd.
Bear witness, Agincourt, where once again
The bannered lilies on the ensanguin'd plain
Were trampled by the fierce pursuers' feet;
And France, doom'd ever to defeat
Against that foe, beheld her myriads fly
Before the withering cry,
St. George, St. George for England! St. George and Victory!

6.

That cry, in many a field of Fame,
Through glorious ages held its high renown,
Nor less hath Britain proved the sacred name
Auspicious to her crown.
Troubled too oft her course of fortune ran,
Till, when the Georges came,
Her happiest age began.
Beneath their just and liberal sway,
Old feuds and factions died away;
One feeling through her realms was known,
One interest of the Nation and the Throne.
Ring, then, ye bells, upon St. George's Day,
From every tower in glad accordance ring;
And let all instruments, full, strong, or sweet,
With touch of modulated string,
And soft or swelling breath, and sonorous beat,
The happy name repeat,
While heart and voice their joyous tribute bring,
And speak the People's love for George their King.