Canto 22 (In Saba, as by one consent…)

In Saba, as by one consent, Frequent the pilgrims single went; So, parting with his young compeer, And breaking fast without delay, For more restorative and cheer, Good Derwent lightly strolled away Within this monkish capital. Chapels and oratories all, And shrines in coves of gilded gloom; The kitchen, too, and pantler's room— Naught came amiss. Anear the church He drew unto a kind of porch Such as next some old minsters be, An inner porch (named Galilee In parlance of the times gone by), A place for discipline and grief. And here his tarry had been brief But for a shield of marble nigh, Set in the living rock: a stone In low relief, where well was shown, Before an altar under sky, A man in armor, visor down, Enlocked complete in panoply, Uplifting reverent a crown In invocation. This armed man In corselet showed the dinted plate, And dread streaks down the thigh-piece ran; But the bright helm inviolate Seemed raised above the battle-zone— Cherubic with a rare device; Perch for the Bird-of-Paradise. A victor seemed he, without pride Of victory, or joy in fame: 'Twas reverence, and naught beside, Unless it might that shadow claim Which comes of trial. Yes, the art So cunning was, that it in part By fair expressiveness of grace Atoned even for the visored face.

Long time becharmed here Derwent stood, Charmed by the marble's quiet mood Of beauty, more than by its tone Of earnestness, though these were one In that good piece. Yes, long he fed Ere yet the eye was lower led To trace the inseription underrun:

O fair and friendly manifested Spirit! Before thine altar dear Let me recount the marvel of the story Fulfilled in tribute here.

In battle waged where all was fraudful silence, Foul battle against odds, Disarmed, I, fall'n and trampled, prayed: Death, su Come, Death: thy hand is God's!

A pale hand noiseless from the turf responded, Riving the turf and stone: It raised, re-armed me, sword and golden armor, And waved me warring on.

O fairest, friendliest, and ever holy— O Love, dissuading fate—

To thee, to thee the rescuer, thee sainted, The crown I dedicate:

To thee I dedicate the crown, a guerdon The winner may not wear; His wound re-opens, and he goes to haven: Spirit! befriend him there.

"A hero, and shall he repine? 'Tis not Achilles;" and straightway He felt the charm in sort decline; And, turning, saw a votary gray: "Good brother, tell: make this thing clear: Who set this up?" "'Twas long ago, Yes, long before I harbored here, Long centuries, they say." "Why, no! So bright it looks, 'tis recent, sure. Who set it up?" "A count turned monk." "What count?" "His name he did abjure For Lazarus, and ever shrunk From aught of his life's history: Yon slab tells all or nothing, see. But this I've heard; that when the stone Hither was brought from Cyprus fair (Some happy sculptors flourished there When Venice ruled), he said to one: 'They've made the knight too rich appear— Too rich in helm.' He set it here In Saba as securest place, For a memorial of grace To outlast him, and many a year."