Poems (Hornblower)/Lines (Forth from the Saracen's far land)

by Jane Elizabeth Roscoe Hornblower

For works with similar titles, see Lines.

LINES.

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"Thomas à Becket may have inherited a romantic turn of mind from his mother, whose story is a singular one. His father, Gilbert Becket, had been in his youth a soldier in the Crusades, and being taken prisoner, became a slave to an Emir, or Saracen Prince. By degrees he obtained the confidence of his master, and was admitted to his company, where he met a personage who became more attached to him. This was the Emir's daughter. After some time he contrived to escape. The lady, with her loving heart, followed him. She knew, they say, but two words of his language—London and Gilbert; by repeating the former, she obtained a passage in a vessel, arrived in England, and found her trusting way to the Metropolis. She then took to her other talisman, and went from street to street, pronouncing "Gilbert." Chance brought her at last to the one in which he who had won her heart in slavery was living in good condition. The crowd drew the family to the window, the servant recognized her, and Gilbert Becket took to his arms, and to his bridal bed, his far-come Princess, with her solitary fond word."—See Hunt's Indicator, vol. 1.

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Forth from the Saracen's far land
 A Moorish Princess rode,
Her fair foot touched the English strand.
 On English soil she trod—
The foreign language met her ear
 Unheeded and unknown,
For oh! her heart by love was tuned
 To one fond word alone—

Her lover's name!—through crowds she went,
 The crowds she heeded not,
His name with every air was blent,
 In every changing spot—
"Gilbert!" her sweet lips cried, and then
 Did thousands press around,
And wondering gazed, until again
 She uttered that loved sound.

And "Gilbert! Gilbert!" still the wind
 Bears on each varying gale,
Street after street she walks resigned,
 With stedfast cheek and pale.—
Her lovely hair streams on the breeze,
 Sore are her gentle feet,
And yet she stays not till she sees
 The face she dies to meet.

Is it a dream?—that manly brow,
 That mien of youthful pride,
Which flies from all that charms it now,
 And rushes to her side;
Which folds her to that noble breast,
 And gently dries her tears,
And takes her to a home of rest,
 And soothes away her fears;

—Which leads her to his kindred's arms,
 Even as his own, his bride,
And asks of all her fond alarms
 Amidst her wanderings wide—
And blesses her, as doubly dear,
 Through toil and danger his,
Who, for his sake, despised all fear,
 And bore all miseries?

His name her only talisman,
 How proudly did he smile,
To hear how it had led her on
 Through all the sea-girt Isle.—
And oh! how gratefully he raised
 His soul to heaven above, And that
Almighty Guardian praised,
 Who thus had saved his love!