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 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
373
THESE SONNETS ARE DEDICATED
TO CHARLES ELIOT NORTON
By AUBREY DE VERE
IN MEMORY OF OLD ROMAN DAYS
375
I. JOAN OF ARC.
O royal-hearted peasant-maid of FranceWhom that ‘still voice’ which those alone can hear
Who walk in innocence and void of fear
To war-fields called from rural toils or dance;
Whom God's great saints, revealed to thee in trance,
For knightly onset girt with shield and spear,
Thy task a Christian throne from dust to rear
And work a Christian realm's deliverance;
O thou that charioted by martyr-fires
Rod'st to thy God that task fulfilled, this day
A deeper need a saintlier aid requires;
Invaders worse possess thy France, their prey;
This hour suffice not crown restored, or chrism:
Her Foes within: thy prayers are exorcism.
1889.
II. THE PRINCE OF WALES' TRIBUTE OF PRAISE TO FATHER DAMIEN.
June 1889.
'Twas just! Fanatic strifes expire, self-slain:
Nature lives on, and Faith. In years gone by
‘The Mass,’ men clamoured, ‘is Idolatry;
The Priest’—true hearts this hour such cries disdain:
Men differ still, but kindly differ, fain
376
All those who live for God and man, who die
As Damien died—no barren death or vain.
Son of old Scottish kings in tartan clad
That chased the stag through woods of Calydon,
Were crowned at Scone, in Holyrood held sway,
Those kings, that martyr-priest in faith were one!
They heard thy words in Heaven. She most was glad
Thine ancestress who bled at Fotheringay.
III. ON THE LATE PILGRIMAGE TO PARAY LE MONIAL.
A.D. 1873.
I. THE BEATA.
She that amid the marbles and the gemsRicher than those that flatter king or queen
Couches, psalm-circled, 'neath yon tapers' sheen,
Despised the light of earthly diadems.
Cesarian pomps, by Tyber or by Thames,
For her no splendours held. Her vision keen,
Piercing earth's glories, found them all unclean
On every shore the sea's blue crescent hems.
Alone the Will of God to her was fair:
Her Universe reflected but His beam:
Yet man remains her client. Critic, spare
To brand that great life as a barren dream:
One gift she gave who claimed in gifts no part—
She drew man nearer to his Saviour's Heart.
377
II. SANCTITY.
Not for the music of miraculous DeedsWhich through God's House resound at intervals
Like marriage chimes gladdening far distant meads
Or torrents echoing from the mountain walls
Not for bright Visions sent from heavenly halls;
Not for that blest Devotion—thine—which breeds
Daily new helps for Time's advancing needs;
'Tis not for these that grateful man installs
Thy memory in his heart. The earth-shaking Word
The all-wondrous Act, whole realms to justice won—
But shadows are of that, the Unseen, the Unheard,
Which they whose Gods are Heroes hate and shun:
For that thou art we love thee; that which He
His Saints Who fashions, worked, and was, in thee.
IV. ST. CHRYSOSTOM'S RETURN FROM EXILE.
Sad is the music though the midnight seasFlash in the torch-light brighter than by day—
378
Like pyres of Norland kings, before the breeze.
That night they pass the famed Symplegades;
At dawn they anchor in Byzantium's bay;
At noon, o'er streets flower-strewn with banners gay
A regal train advances. Who are these?
An Emperor kneels before a Pontiff's bier,
Suing the pardon of a Father's crime;
A penitent people high the coffin rear;
The ‘Apostles' Church,’ as in the ancient time,
Receives once more her exiled Chrysostom—
Fitlier this day he sleeps Saint Peter's guest at Rome.
Arcadius, Emperor of the East, banished St. Chrysostom. He died of his sufferings on his way to his place of exile, Pityus, on the eastern coast of the Euxine. Thirty years later Theodosius II., son of Arcadius, brought back the body of the Saint to Constantinople, and interred it, A.D. 438, in the Church of the Apostles. See Leaves from St. John Chrysostom, by Mary H. Allies, pp. 13—15.
V. THE DEATH OF POPE HILDEBRAND.
‘Justice I loved: the unrighteous way by meWas hated; for that cause exile I die.’
Thus Hildebrand; his prelates wept hard by
Save one, his best and dearest. All night he
Had watched that Sufferer while Salerno's sea
Beat on the neighbouring coasts. With kindling eye
Fixed on the dying man he made reply
Risen from the ground yet bending still his knee:
‘Father, not so! All wrongs save one may rage
Around God's Church, strike down its earthly Head:
A prison may be his home, a rack his bed,—
Exile he can not be for God hath sworn
“The heathen I will make thy heritage
And thy possession earth's remotest bourn.”’
379
VI. THE FORMULARY OF POPE HORMISDAS.
January 18, 1889.
‘The Chalice Jesus raised, the Bread He brake,
Emperor, and ye his bishops of the East
Who share the Empire's, not the Church's feast,
At Peter's board demand not to partake
Until not less those Words which Jesus spake,
“Peter thou art: upon this Rock I build
My Church”—Creative Words in act fulfilled—
Ye take into your hearts for Jesus' sake.’
Thus wrote Hormisdas. Onward as a wind
That Spirit Divine Who o'er the waters moved
Wafted his legates saintly and approved:
Two thousand and five hundred bishops signed
The Pontiff's ‘Rule’ in Christ's own words confessed:
Died the revolt. That hour God's Church found rest.
VII. THE SPANISH ARMADA AND THE ENGLISH CATHOLICS.
A Spanish fleet affront our English shores!It must not be; it shall not! Sink or swim
Our Cause, our lamp of Hope burn bright or dim,
Long as o'er English cliffs the osprey soars,
380
No alien flag shall scale our blue sea-rim,
No smoke from Spanish gun our skies bedim,
No foot from Parma stain our household floors!
Fair sirs, we question not your true intent
To prop true Faith, and Queens in wedlock born:
But foreign aid, and arms, and arts we scorn:
To native hearts and hands we trust the event:
The Right is ours; with God the arbitrament:
At worst, beyond His night remains His morn!
VIII. THE ISLAND OF IONA.
Not for the tombs of old Norwegian KingsOr Scottish, iron-mailed, and crowned at Scone:
Not for those ‘Island-Lords’ the Minstrel sings
As sang his sires in centuries past and flown;
Not for yon grassy terrace breeze-o'erblown,
Yon crags to which the storm-wrecked shepherd clings
Eying far lights on isle and mountain thrown
As though from onward-sailing Angels' wings;—
Iona! 'Tis not these that yearly draw
Thy Pilgrims hither o'er the Northern sea
And hold them there spell-bound in loving awe:
That spell, Columba, is the thought of thee!
They gaze; they muse; ‘these shores that Exile trod—
That Exile's sons gave England to her God!’
Columba, though a priest, had joined in an Irish battle. The penance imposed on him was perpetual exile from Ireland. He made Iona his abode till death, preaching on the adjacent shores. Montalembert affirms that later his Irish monks converted nearly three-quarters of Anglo-Saxon England.
381
IX. MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.
Strong Land, by Wallace trod and Bruce: brave LandThat broke great Edward's ranks at Bannockburn:
Fair Land whose breast, upheaved in Faith's bright morn
Breathed forth, like sighs of joy, these fanes that stand
Even now on Stirling's rock, Iona's strand;
How long shall Justice point with sorrowing scorn
At that sole act which on thy brow time-worn
So long unblemished, stamped so dark a brand?
A Queen there was, struck down in beauty's prime,
Captive till death, religious, fearless, true:
The calumny that dogged her was a crime
Of edge more trenchant than the axe that slew.
False nobles wrecked her, and a Rival's hate—
Repent that wrong thy tears alone can expiate!
X. A PORTRAIT OF ANNE BOLEYN.
Ah, silver-tissued phantom lithe as hindSkimming dark glades! Ah, white as moon that dips
In storm-cloud black its crescent's glimmering tips!
Ah, blithesome foot, swifter than wave or wind!
382
Honour's death-warrant? Those the laughing lips
That o'er a realm's Religion breathed eclipse;
A King, once kingly, changed to false and blind?
Salomè new! was this the babe that played
With her own shadow 'mid the founts and flowers?
Death-sentenced Queen! was this the girl that prayed
Before our Lady's shrine, unmoved for hours?
I judge not her. The night before her death
She prayed her childhood's prayers—with tranquil breath.
XI. ON THE CONSECRATION OF ST. PATRICK'S NEW CATHEDRAL AT ARMAGH.
August 24, 1873.
This day the crime of ages stands reversed:
This day, re-risen, in saintlier sovereignty
Saint Patrick's towers invoke their native sky,
His second Temple lordlier than his first:
Orient once more, a vanished Hope hath burst
From night's black realm: in Stygian pageantry
The stormy wrecks of Penal years go by
Like ghosts remanded to their realms accurst.
Ho, Watcher on the summits! cry aloud,
How speeds the dawn? What promise gilds the East?
A Voice responds—thy voice, great Patriarch-Priest,
‘I see a Race baptized as in the cloud:
I see a Nation round an Altar bowed:
I see God's People share His Marriage Feast.’
383
XII. ON THE CONSECRATION OF IRELAND TO THE SACRED HEART.
Passion Sunday 1873.
Lift up Thy gates, triumphant Heart Eterne
Heart of the God-man! Heart that, throned on high,
Larger than that starred palace of the sky
In glory reignest, and in love dost burn!
To Thee this day a People's heart doth yearn;
To Thee, all eagle-winged, yet tremblingly
Makes way; in Thee would live; for Thee would die,
Zealous for Thee terrestrial crowns to spurn.
‘Lift up your heads ye everlasting gates,’
And give a nation leave to enter in!
The centuries ended of her adverse fates
This day with God she hides her from the sin
Of prosperous realms that trample gifts divine—
Heart of the God-man, make Thy captive Thine!
ON THE LAYING OF THE FOUNDATION STONE OF THE NEW CHURCH AT MAYNOOTH COLLEGE.
XIII. THE PAST.
October 10, 1875.
Not vain the faith and patience of the Saints!
Not vain, sad Isle, thy many-centuried woes!
384
Is splendour; and the shattered forest's plaints
In music die. No dull repining taints
That ether pure of memory's realm, which far
Recedes, like some long tract left waste by war,
Some tract which eve with peaceful purple paints.
Long time thy priests, my country, were thy poor:
The Cross their book they raised the Sacrifice
In ruined chancel, and on rainy moor:
Behold, the great reward is come! Arise,
Fane long desired! Beneath thy roofs of gold
Throne the new rites—the creed and worship old!
XIV. THE FOUNDATION STONE.
Descend, strong Stone, into my country's breast:Child of the sea-beat cliff, or skiey height,
Descend, well-pleased, into the eternal night;
Amid the eternal silence make thy rest!
Descend in hope, thou high, prophetic Guest,
For God a covenant upon thee doth write:
On thee His pledge is graved in words of might
Plain as those mandates by His hand impressed,
While Sinai's peaks made answer, thunder-riven,
On the twinned Tablets of the Hebrew Law.
This day the future with the past is wed;
The undying promise with the greatness dead;
Ireland this day her ancient pact with Heaven
Renews in godly triumph, loving awe.
385
XV. THE MAYNOOTH CENTENARY;
OR, IRELAND'S VOCATION.
I heard a voice and turned me. From aboveA heavenly City crowned with minsters fair
And college courts high-towered, through glittering air
Drew to our planet softly as a dove;
Nearer that vision moved or seemed to move:
At last it reached our shores; and I was 'ware
That all its walls were graved with text and prayer
Truth's legend old, God's book of endless Love.
Anon from all its gates there issued forth
Prophet-processions singing this: ‘This day
Our task again reaches the ends of Earth!
Ireland gave mandate, and her sons obey,
Ireland, the Apostolic Land. Four-fold
Faith's victories new shall pass her victories old!’
1895.
XVI. THE NEW CATHOLIC CHURCH NEAR WINDERMERE.
1885.
I
Deep-bosomed vales of England's queenliest land,And thou her amplest as her loveliest lake,
Be just, be grateful, and our joy partake!
Lo where a daughter of that Faith once banned
386
Through yonder cloud I see a promise break;
‘The land that slept, that land at last shall wake
And hail yon Cross there raised at God's command,’
From Langdale's pikes to Scawfell's loneliest wold
Rejoice fair hills whose yew-woods teemed of old
The bows at Crecy feared and Ascalon;
Rejoice thou most, grey Furness, early and late
Warding our British Highlands' southern gate:
Say to thy graves; ‘Rejoice! the night is gone!’
II
Wordsworth, and Southey, and that other NameFitly with these conjoined, whose Orphic lays
Though few, gave help to tune discordant days,
Whose insight puts our modern seers to shame,
When to this Carmel of the North ye came
Then young, no prophet race survived to raise
Truth's standard old; perforce in Error's maze
Ye walked, though pure your feet and high your aim.
Not less Truth's whisper, from Iona's Isle
First breathed, still faintly clung to cliff and fell
Like night-dews trembling round some ruined pile!
That whisper to a trumpet's blast shall swell,
And ye, great Souls with Fisher and with More
Exulting hear it from the eternal shore.
III
Great men grow rarer daily; great were these:Greater those tonsured Saints discalced, who trod,
Now living Powers, not plaintive Memories,
This God-loved land, and rest this day with God:
387
Cuthbert, his friend, whose sea-girt diocese
From Lindisfarne to westward-throned St. Bees
Revered one crosier staff and prophet-rod;
Old Bede, and countless more in Faith's glad morn
Who roamed Northumbria's bound, and glorified
Bernicia and Deira and Strathclyde:
Behold! to them this day a child is born!
This day to God they lift their hands and say,
‘Bless this new Altar: bless Thy Land for aye.’
XVII. WALNA CRAG, AND ‘THE LADY'S RAKE,’ DERWENTWATER.
1895.
Not Skiddaw, not Blencathara's ‘skiey height,’
Not Derwent Isle, Lodare, not Borrodale,
So charmed in youth, so cheer in age my sight
As thou, O Walna Crag, and that sad tale
Of her who, rebel-roused at dead of night,
Caught up her Babe new-born; still weak and frail
Clasping that Babe found strength yon cliff to scale
While fought far off her Lord to attest a right
By sophists mocked. King James' fall was just:
He sinned; but blameless was King James' son;
His claim was owned by James' ill-crowned daughter:
Who charged with crime that Royal Youth? Not one!
Who died to vindicate that claim august?
That peerless Lady's Consort—Derwentwater.
388
XVIII. ULSWATER.
September 5, 1895.
Pensive Ulswater, thanks! Thy face once more
I see. Hail, English Lakeland's duskiest Child,
Duskiest, for, closeliest here around thee piled
Her mountains fling their shades from shore to shore.
Again thine Aira Force's ‘gentle roar’
I hear breeze-borne o'er heathery waste and wild;
Again I see, delightedly beguiled,
Those daffodils thy Wordsworth sang of yore.
The waves beside them ‘they out-did in glee’
That day. This hour perchance from yonder sky
Their Poet sees them—she beside him, she
Who gazed with him through tears on Yarrow's bowers—
Ah surely nothing bright and fair once ours,
If wholly pure, can ever wholly die!
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |