The Singing Caravan: A Sufi TaleVansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Religion
The Singing Caravan: A Sufi Tale
Vansittart, Robert Gilbert Vansittart, Baron
Poetry
Belike 'twas well no foe would stand--our cavaliers were out of
hand--
So I was baulked. With scarce a blow we filed across the wasted
land
For leagues, till Baldwin turned aside, and out of Peradventure
carved
His slice, Edessa. We were plied to march on Antioch half-starved.
For seven months sheer courage toiled to take the town. Its
ramparts foiled
Our engines. Sulkiness sat down within us, and temptation coiled
Tight round our bodies; every vice was lurking like a cockatrice.
Ah, flesh can never quite repel the sinuous things which thoughts
entice.
You honey-coloured Syrian girls, whose voices turned our knights to
thirls,
I looked away and stopped my ears by thinking of the glossier
merles
At home. The arm upheld by Hur had not sufficed him to deter
The dissipation of our force, alas. My lord deceived The Burr.
'Twas worse when treachery let us in. Blood, lechery, pillage, fire
and din
Burned an impression on my mind: the sexual ugliness of sin.
Cool Bohemond called Antioch his. Ere we had killed our mutineers,
We the besiegers were besieged by Kurbugha and his Amírs.
Alternate famine and carouse brought plague; but doubtless God
allows
Expensive trials of faith that we might learn the magic formulæ.
We melted, melted; kites were fed upon us, dogs ran dripping red
From piles of nameless carrion, the race that Europe might have
bred.
Throughout our ranks desertion raged by daily sermons unassuaged.
The preaching man was first in this "rope-dancing." Disillusion
aged
My youth by years. My master stayed. If he had erred he promptly
paid.
The pestilence ran after him. Despite the fervour I displayed
He died of sores, this prince of tilt, though guarded by ten
hallowed charms,
This subject of all _trouvère_-lilt, lord in an hundred ladies'
arms.
Oh, how I struggled to be brave when the Pope's legate, grey and
grim,
Said simply this beside the grave: "Christ died for you. You died
for Him."
Only his jester seemed to care, and ceased awhile to swear and
daff.
"Who," he repeated in despair, "will pay me for his epitaph?"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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