(Robert Stephen Hawker)

The Scroll

BRING me, he said, that scribe of fame,
Symeon el Siddekah his name:
With parchment skin, and pen in hand,
I would devise my Cornish land.

Seven goodly manors, fair and wide,
Stretch from the sea to Tamar side:
And Bien-aimé, my hall and bower,
Nestles beneath tall Stratton Tower.

All these I render to my God,
By seal and signet, knife and sod:
I give and grant to church and poor,
In franc-almoign forevermore.

Choose ye seven men among the just,
And bid them hold my lands in trust;
On Michaels morn, and Marys day,
To deal the dole, and watch and pray.

Then bear me coldly oer the deep,
Mid my own people I would sleep:
Their hearts shall melt, their prayers will breathe,
Where he who loved them rests beneath.

Mould me in stone as here I lie,
My face upturned to Syrias sky:
Carve ye this good sword at my side,
And write the legend, True and tried.

Let mass be said, and requiem sung;
And that sweet chime I loved be rung:
Those sounds along the northern wall
Shall thrill me like a trumpet-call.

Thus said he, and at set of sun
The bold Crusaders race was run.
Seek ye his ruined hall and bower?
Then stand beneath tall Stratton Tower.

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