A Legend of "The Red, White, and Blue," A. D. 1154-1864

A STRONG and mighty Angel,Calm, terrible, and bright,The cross in blended red and blueUpon his mantle white.

Two captives by him kneeling,Each on his broken chain,Sang praise to God who raisethThe dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle,"Wear this," the Angel said;"Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign,The white, the blue, and red."

Then rose up John de MathaIn the strength the Lord Christ gave,And begged through all the land of FranceThe ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castleBefore him open flew,The drawbridge at his coming fell,The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,And paid his righteous tax;And the hearts of lord and peasantWere in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,His bark her anchor weighed,Freighted with seven-score Christian soulsWhose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred,Her sails in tatters hung;And on the wild waves, rudderless,A shattered hulk she swung.

"God save us!" cried the captain,"For naught can man avail;Oh, woe betide the ship that lacksHer rudder and her sail!

"Behind us are the Moormen;At sea we sink or strandThere's death upon the water,There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John de Matha"God's errands never fail!Take thou the mantle which I wear,And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle,The blue, the white, the red;And straight before the wind off-shoreThe ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us!" cried the seamen,"For vain is mortal skillThe good ship on a stormy seaIs drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha"My mariners, never fearThe Lord whose breath has filled her sailMay well our vessel steer!"

So on through storm and darknessThey drove for weary hours;And lo! the third gray morning shoneOn Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchersThe ship of mercy knew,They knew far off its holy cross,The red, the white, and blue.

And the bells in all the steeplesRang out in glad accord,To welcome home to Christian soilThe ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legendBy bard and painter told;And lo! the cycle rounds again,The new is as the old!

With rudder foully broken,And sails by traitors torn,Our country on a midnight seaIs waiting for the morn.

Before her, nameless terror;Behind, the pirate foe;The clouds are black above her,The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer,The dread of all who wrong,She drifts in darkness and in storm,How long, O Lord I how long?

But courage, O my marinersYe shall not suffer wreck,While up to God the freedman's prayersAre rising from your deck.

Is not your sail the bannerWhich God hath blest anew,The mantle that De Matha wore,The red, the white, the blue?

Its hues are all of heaven,The red of sunset's dye,The whiteness of the moon-lit cloud,The blue of morning's sky.

Wait cheerily, then, O mariners,For daylight and for land;The breath of God is in your sail,Your rudder is His hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep-freightedWith blessings and with hopes;The saints of old with shadowy handsAre pulling at your ropes.

Behind ye holy martyrsUplift the palm and crown;Before ye unborn ages sendTheir benedictions down.

Take heart from John de Matha!--God's errands never fail!Sweep on through storm and darkness,The thunder and the hail!

Sail on! The morning cometh,The port ye yet shall win;And all the bells of God shall ringThe good ship bravely in!