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Lepanto -- G K Chesterton

Guest poem sent in by Mallika Chellappa
(Poem #1280) Lepanto
 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;
 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.
 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,
 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.
 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
 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,
 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.

 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,
 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,
 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
 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.
 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,
 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!
 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!
 Bolt from Iberia!
 Don John of Austria
 Is gone by Alcalar.

 St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
 (Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
 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,
 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.
 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
 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.
 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,
 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!
 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,
 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 plum├Ęd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
 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
 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,
 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,
 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!
 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,
 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.)
-- G K Chesterton
I mentioned "Lepanto" in my last submission and thought I would add it. [A
very welcome submission - it was just a few days ago that I was startled to
notice we had only run one Chesterton poem. - martin]

My father had this "Anthology of Modern Verse" (Methuen 1921??) which had
the most amazing poetry, all the more since most (all?) of the poets were
alive at the time the book was first published. It was a small green book,
and later he got "A New Anthology of Modern Verse" which was red.  Sadly I
lost both these books when moving house in 1981, when I had to drop
everything on hearing that my grandfather had died. The books were in a sack
along with lots of letters (each with a limerick written by my brother) and
were thrown away(?) by the moving firm which completed the job in my

It is looong, but it is a great read!

If you know anyone who needs elocution lessons, this is just the ticket -
they will enjoy it.



  Lepanto: Italian name for Naupactos (Naupactus) a titular metropolitan see
  of ancient Epirus. [...]

  Occupied by the Turks in 1498, Lepanto is chiefly celebrated for the
  victory which the combined papal, Spanish, Venetian, and Genoese fleets,
  under Don John of Austria, gained over the Turkish fleet on 7 Oct., 1571.

31 comments: ( or Leave a comment )

Sir Arthur C Clarke said...

Celebrates a battle which destroyed a superior culture, and led to the
centuries of Christian barbarism from which we are just escaping! (With
much assistance from Boston's bent bishops.....)

Too long, but some fine lines...

Arthur Clarke 13 Aug 03

Ron Baynes said...

Enjoyed reading Lepanto again after many years. I have been trying to find a copy of the Anthology of Modern Verse (Metheun) which was an assigned text in my last year of the secondary school in Antigua. in the mid-1940s -- but with no luck. It contained Lepanto -- but not at full length, obviously; and many poets of the Great War - Sassoon, Brook, Owen. I imagine it would have been published in th mid-1930s

Ron Baynes, Ottawa, Canada

Ellie said...

Aloha from Hawaii -- Great to read Lepanto again! My mom in South Africa has Methuens anthology--she'd studied it at school. I wish they'd bring it out again. My son, Adam, has a band and writes the songs and found the anthology inspirational...which shows it appeals to all ages!

Best wishes,

Ellie Crowe

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