Douglas Of The Bleeding Heart Poem by Moritz von Strachwitz

Earl Douglas, don thy helm so bright,
And buckle thy sword with speed,
Bind on thy sharpest spurs to-night
And saddle thy swiftest steed!

'The death watch ticks in the hall of Scone,
All Scotland hears its warning,
King Robert in pains of death does groan,
He'll never see the morning.'

For nigh on forty miles they sped
And spoke of words not four,
And horse and spur with blood were red
When they came to the palace door.

King Robert lay at the north tower's turn;
With death he'd begun to battle:
'I hear the sword of Bannockburn
On the stairway clatter and rattle.

'Ha! Welcome in God's name, gallant lord!
My end cometh presently,
And thou shalt harken my latest word
And write down my will for me:

''Twas on the day of Bannockburn,
When Scotland's star rose high,
'Twas on the day of Bannockburn
That a vow to God vowed I;

'I vowed that, should He defend my right
And give me the victory there,
With a thousand lances I'd go to fight
For His holy sepulchre.

'I'm perjured, for still my heart doth stand,
'Twas broken with care and strife;
The man who would rule o'er the Scottish land
May scarce lead a pilgrim's life.

'But thou, when my voice has sunk to rest,
When grief and glory depart,
Shalt straightway cut from out my breast
My battle-o'erwearied heart.

'Then thou shalt wrap the samite red
And lock it in yellow gold,
And when o'er my bier the mass is said,
Let the flag of the cross be unrolled.

'Take a thousand steeds at thy command
And a thousand knights also,
And carry my heart to the Savior's land
That peace my soul may know.'

* * * * *

'Make ready, gallants, for the start,
Let plume from helmet sway!
The Douglas bears the Bruce's heart,
And who shall bar his way?

'Now cut the ropes, ye seamen brave
And hoist the sail so free!
The king must to his dark, dark grave,
And we to the dark-blue sea.'

Then into the east they sailed away
Full ninety days and nine,
And at the dawn of the hundredth day
They landed in Palestine.

Across the yellow desert they wound
As a shining river might flow,
The sun it pierced through their helmets' round
Like an arrow shot from a bow.

The desert was still, there breathed no gust,
All limply the flags were streaming,
When up to the sky rose a cloud of dust
Whence lightning of spears was gleaming.

The desert was thronged, the din grew loud,
The dust was on every side.
And thick as rain from each bursting cloud
Did the spear-armed Saracens ride.

Ten thousand lances glittered to right,
Ten thousand sparkled to left,
'Allah il Allah!' they shouted to right,
'Il Allah!' they echoed to left.

The Douglas drew his bridle rein,
And still stood earl and knight;
'By the cross on which our Lord was slain
'Twill be a deadly fight!'

A noble chain his neck embraced
In golden windings three.
The locket to his lips he placed
And kissed it fervently:

'Since thou hast ever gone before,
O heart, by night and day,
E'en so today do thou once more
Precede me in the fray.

'And now may God this boon bestow,
As I to thee have been true,
That I may strike a Christian blow
Against this heathen crew.'

He threw his shield o'er his left side,
Bound on his helm so proud,
And as to battle he did ride,
He rose and called aloud:

'Who brings this locket back to me
Be his the day's renown!'
Then 'mid the paynims mightily
He hurled the king's heart down.

Each made the cross with his left thumb,
The right hand held the lance,
No fear had they though fiends had come
To check their bold advance.

A sudden crash, a headlong flight,
And mad death raging around-
But when the sun sank in the sea's blue light
From the desert there came no sound.

For the pride of the east was there laid low
In the sweep of the death-strewed plain,
And the sand so red in the afterglow
Would never be white again.

Of all the heathen, by God's good grace
Not one had escaped that harm,
Short patience have men of the Scottish race
And ever a long sword-arm!

But where had been the fellest strife,
There lay in the moonlight clear
The good Earl Douglas, reft of life
By a hellish heathen spear.

All cleft and rent was the mail he wore,
And finished his mortal smart.
Yet under his shield he clasped once more
King Robert Bruce's heart.