Sangar

SOMEWHERE I read a strange, old, rusty tale
Smelling of war; most curiously named
The Mad Recreant Knight of the West.
Once, you have read, the round world brimmed with hate,
Stirred and revolted, flashed unceasingly  
Facets of cruel splendor. And the strong
Harried the weak …
  Long past, long past, praise God,
In these fair, peaceful, happy days.

  The Tale:  
  Eastward the Huns break border,
  Surf on a rotten dyke;
  They have murdered the Eastern Warder
  (His head on a pike).
  “Arm thee, arm thee, my father!  
  Swift rides the Goddes-bane,
  And the high nobles gather
  On the plain!”

  “O blind world-wrath!” cried Sangar,
  “Greatly I killed in youth;  
  I dreamed men had done with anger
  Through Goddes truth!”
  Smiled the boy then in faint scorn,
  Hard with the battle-thrill;
  “Arm thee, loud calls the war-horn  
  And shrill!”

  He has bowed to the voice stentorian,
  Sick with thought of the grave—
  He has called for his battered motion
  And his scarred glaive.  
  On the boy’s helm a glove
  Of the Duke’s daughter—
  In his eyes splendor of love
  And slaughter.

  Hideous the Hun advances  
  Like a sea-tide on sand;
  Unyielding, the haughty lances
  Make dauntless stand.
  And ever amid the clangor,
  Butchering Hun and Hun,  
  With sorrowful face rides Sangar
  And his son….

  Broken is the wild invader
  (Sullied, the whole world’s fountains);
  They have penned the murderous raider  
  With his back to the mountains.
  Yet though what had been mead
  Is now a bloody lake,
  Still drink swords where men bleed,
  Nor slake.  

  Now leaps one into the press—
  The hell ’twixt front and front—
  Sangar, bloody and torn of dress
  (He has borne the brunt).
  “Hold!” cries, “Peace! God’s peace!  
  Heed ye what Christus says—”
  And the wild battle gave surcease
  In amaze.

  “When will ye cast out hate?
  Brothers—my mad, mad brothers—  
  Mercy, ere it be too late,
  These are sons of your mothers.
  For sake of Him who died on Tree,
  Who of all creatures, loved the least—”
  “Blasphemer! God of Battles, He!”  
  Cried a priest.

  “Peace!” and with his two hands
  Has broken in twain his glaive.
  Weaponless, smiling he stands—
  (Coward or brave?)  
  “Traitor!” howls one rank, “Think ye
  The Hun be our brother?”
  And “Fear we to die, craven, think ye?”
  The other.

  Then sprang his son to his side,  
  His lips with slaver were wet,
  For he had felt how men died
  And was lustful yet;
  (On his bent helm a glove
  Of the Duke’s daughter,  
  In his eyes splendor of love
  And slaughter)—

  Shouting, “Father no more of mine!
  Shameful old man—abhorr’d,
  First traitor of all our line!”  
  Up the two-handed sword.
  He smote—fell Sangar—and then
  Screaming, red, the boy ran
  Straight at the foe, and again
  Hell began….  

Oh, there was joy in Heaven when Sangar came.
Sweet Mary wept, and bathed and bound his wounds,
And God the Father healed him of despair,
And Jesus gripped his hand, and laughed and laughed….