Poem by Dora Greenwell

The White Crusade

"And the earth helped the woman."—
                Rev. xii. 16.

Long, long the foot of pride
 Trode down the human heart from hour to hour
With iron heel, and ever on the side
 Of tyrants there was power;

Till seventy summers back,
 A Cry went up by night to God for food;
A raven's cry, a lion's, on the track
 Of rapine and of blood;

And Freedom at the sound
 Stirred where she lay within her grave for dead,
And rose up from the earth, and gazed around
 Like one disquieted.

As one that hath been dead
 Four days, she rose up from her grave; she woke
Bound round with grave-clothes, hands, and feet, and head;
 Yet when she rose she spoke:

Like Lazarus from the tomb
 She rose, and stood upright; like him a while
She walked with men,—yet on her cheek no bloom,
 And on her lip no smile.

As one that sleeping shakes
 Beneath a ghastly slumber-coil, will seem
To wake at dead of night, yet only wakes
 Into a fearful dream;

She woke into a world
 Of wreck and ruin; winds and waves that roared,
Men's hearts that failed, and goodliest treasures hurled
 To monsters overboard.

They called her, but she shrank;
 She stretched her hands to bless, and, lo! a stain
Of blood upon each palm! She groaned, and sank
 Into her grave again.

Yet 'mid the tumult fierce
 That gathered as she fell, was faintly heard
From fainting lips—a blessing or a curse—
 And yet a treasured word;—

And still from land to land
 The whisper grew, and still the murmur sped
By look, by sign, by pressure of the hand,
 "The maiden is not dead,"

And some would watch for hours
 Beside her tomb, until they seemed to hear
Beneath the winter's ice, the summer's flowers,
 A breathing low and clear.

The nations spake: "But who
 Shall roll away this heavy stone, by day
And night close sealed and watched?" They came, and lo!
 The stone was rolled away!

And clothed in raiment white
 From head to feet, was seated on the stone
A Shining Form, that earth had given to light
 Without a travail-groan.

No blood on brow or palm,
 Or on her robe, but in her steadfast eye,
And on her lips, a summons clear and calm:
 "Who loves, knows how to die."

She hath a smile for foes,
 A smile for friends; and yet her breast is bare,
And bare her feet, and on the way she goes
 Lies the red burning share.

She wakes, perchance to show
 Of wounds received in houses of her friends,—to weep.
Like Rachel, o'er her sons brought forth in woe.
 Yet nevermore to sleep!

1. Seeking
2. God's Singer
3. When the Night and Morning Meet
4. Faint Yet Pursuing
5. To Christina Rossetti

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