7. Hatlin, or Satan's Moral (Scene: A Village Near Palestine. Time, the Morning)

 “Dear Persian mum, attend Saladin’s lays,
And hear how Shepherds passed their ancient days;
Not all were blest, De Lusignan maintains,
With smelling salts, nor what can cure chilblains;
Well may your heart believe the truths I tell –
‘Tis God who makes us piss, and so we smell.”
Thus, Satan sung, by sacred Truth inspired,
Nor praise, but such as Couth bestowed, desired.
Wise in himself, remembered songs conveyed,
Inspiring terror in the leprous Maid,
But taught the swains that surest bliss to find,
What hills and vales bestow, sublimated mind.

While sick and gushing, De Lusignan’s Bride,
The radiant morn was Palestinian pride,
Where naked babes along the foot-steppes play,
Rolling on flowers, laughing fears away;
In Tiberius’ hills of blooms, they hung,
While Satan sang for one frail and young:
 Dear Persian mum,” he sang. “To you belong –
As it will please – the morals of my song,
No fairer braids, I trust than yours are found,
Graced by Aurora, the likeliest around.

The morn which dawns on you her light supplies,
A slow opening of your tired eyes,
For you, her vials my fragrant hands bestow,
For are the bride the king delights to know;
Yet think not furs, that wooly mammals are,
The kind of blessings heaven grants the fair,
Each tendered parcel he delights you find,
Knows no transgression, nor depravity of mind.

Blest were the days when Cupid held his reign,
And parents let him dart about the plain,
For Love, he wedded in a secret grove,
De Lusignan and you, to his trove.
Oh paste, young mum: those freckles come away,
Montferrat’s twenty lead you on your way,
The Christmas frost, and I shall say no more –
For such you reason Terror – no more.

Lost in the fields, yet so the Fates complain,
A child shall yet be born again,
Come now, whose thoughts on plenty ales I’m sure,
Which make the rounds, no indignity impure.
He shall rule court amidst the coffee cream,
And Shepherd girls shall own him in a dream;
Send correspondence, lest you are afraid,
But loathing this, for contradictory said:
Saladin, he was not more than mountain.
No. Much less perhaps than mountains deadly foe.
Strange how the West might question what we do,
The Middle East conceals us from a view,
Faith’s old desire, Hopes are all known,
Charity’s kind heart was turned to stone.
No less volcano, with his bloodshot eyes,
That friendly warmth full of tender sighs,
But trust the last – and here you shall approve,
This was the measure of Saladin’s love.”

Thus, sung Satan, and ancient legends say,
That Saladin’s men versified the lay,
Dear to her pains, a child came along,
King Baldwin died as Satan sung his song.