| WHITE founts falling in the Courts of the sun, |  | 
| And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run; |  | 
| There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared, |  | 
| It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard; |  | 
| It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips; | 5 | 
| For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships. |  | 
| They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy, |  | 
| They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea, |  | 
| And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss, |  | 
| And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross. | 10 | 
| The cold queen of England is looking in the glass; |  | 
| The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass; |  | 
| From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun, |  | 
| And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun. |  | 
|  | 
| Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard, | 15 | 
| Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred, |  | 
| Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall, |  | 
| The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall, |  | 
| The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung, |  | 
| That once went singing southward when all the world was young. | 20 | 
| In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid, |  | 
| Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade. |  | 
| Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far, |  | 
| Don John of Austria is going to the war, |  | 
| Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold | 25 | 
| In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold, |  | 
| Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums, |  | 
| Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes. |  | 
| Don John laughing in the brave beard curled, |  | 
| Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world, | 30 | 
| Holding his head up for a flag of all the free. |  | 
| Love-light of Spain—hurrah! |  | 
| Death-light of Africa! |  | 
| Don John of Austria |  | 
| Is riding to the sea. | 35 | 
|  | 
| Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star, |  | 
| (Don John of Austria is going to the war.) |  | 
| He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees, |  | 
| His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas. |  | 
| He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease, | 40 | 
| And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees; |  | 
| And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring |  | 
| Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing. |  | 
| Giants and the Genii, |  | 
| Multiplex of wing and eye, | 45 | 
| Whose strong obedience broke the sky |  | 
| When Solomon was king. |  | 
|  | 
| They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn, |  | 
| From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn; |  | 
| They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea | 50 | 
| Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be, |  | 
| On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl, |  | 
| Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl; |  | 
| They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,— |  | 
| They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound. | 55 | 
| And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide, |  | 
| And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide, |  | 
| And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest, |  | 
| For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west. |  | 
| We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun, | 60 | 
| Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done. |  | 
| But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know |  | 
| The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago: |  | 
| It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate; |  | 
| It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate! | 65 | 
| It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth, |  | 
| Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth." |  | 
| For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar, |  | 
| (Don John of Austria is going to the war.) |  | 
| Sudden and still—hurrah! | 70 | 
| Bolt from Iberia! |  | 
| Don John of Austria |  | 
| Is gone by Alcalar. |  | 
|  | 
| St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north |  | 
| (Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.) | 75 | 
| Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift |  | 
| And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift. |  | 
| He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone; |  | 
| The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone; |  | 
| The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes, | 80 | 
| And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise, |  | 
| And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room, |  | 
| And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom, |  | 
| And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,— |  | 
| But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea. | 85 | 
| Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse |  | 
| Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips, |  | 
| Trumpet that sayeth ha! |  | 
| Domino gloria! |  | 
| Don John of Austria | 90 | 
| Is shouting to the ships. |  | 
|  | 
| King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck |  | 
| (Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.) |  | 
| The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin, |  | 
| And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in. | 95 | 
| He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon, |  | 
| He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon, |  | 
| And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey |  | 
| Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day, |  | 
| And death is in the phial and the end of noble work, | 100 | 
| But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk. |  | 
| Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed— |  | 
| Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid. |  | 
| Gun upon gun, ha! ha! |  | 
| Gun upon gun, hurrah! | 105 | 
| Don John of Austria |  | 
| Has loosed the cannonade. |  | 
|  | 
| The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke, |  | 
| (Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.) |  | 
| The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year, | 110 | 
| The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear. |  | 
| He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea |  | 
| The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery; |  | 
| They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark, |  | 
| They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark; | 115 | 
| And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs, |  | 
| And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs, |  | 
| Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines |  | 
| Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines. |  | 
| They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung | 120 | 
| The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young. |  | 
| They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on |  | 
| Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon. |  | 
| And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell |  | 
| Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell, | 125 | 
| And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign— |  | 
| (But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!) |  | 
| Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop, |  | 
| Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop, |  | 
| Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds, | 130 | 
| Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds, |  | 
| Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea |  | 
| White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty. |  | 
|  | 
| Vivat Hispania! |  | 
| Domino Gloria! | 135 | 
| Don John of Austria |  | 
| Has set his people free! |  | 
|  | 
| Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath |  | 
| (Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.) |  | 
| And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain, | 140 | 
| Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain, |  | 
| And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade.... |  | 
| (But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.) 
 
 
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