Gerard's Monument And Other Poems. By Emily Pfeiffer: 2nd Ed., Revised and Enlarged |
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| VI. |
 | Gerard's Monument |  |
The Goldsmith took a lump of ore
And filed away some golden grains:
Quoth he: “He'll want it all, and more,
And he shall have it: if my store
Grow less, I'll double it with pains.
I'll point my fancy subtle-fine,
And hand with thought shall so combine
To permeate a grain of earth,
That they shall multiply its worth.”
He gathered in his strong right hand
The fragments, to the last gold sand,
And pointing to the mass, the whole
Whence he had taken that slight toll:
“This for your brother, sweet my life,”
He said, and gave it to his wife.
And filed away some golden grains:
Quoth he: “He'll want it all, and more,
And he shall have it: if my store
Grow less, I'll double it with pains.
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And hand with thought shall so combine
To permeate a grain of earth,
That they shall multiply its worth.”
He gathered in his strong right hand
The fragments, to the last gold sand,
And pointing to the mass, the whole
Whence he had taken that slight toll:
“This for your brother, sweet my life,”
He said, and gave it to his wife.
Oh, happy goldsmith! had the work
You made yourself been toil and irk,
A man had done it for such prize,—
Such worship of a woman's eyes.
You made yourself been toil and irk,
A man had done it for such prize,—
Such worship of a woman's eyes.
She took it, but she never stirred,
Her eyes that blessed him, still demurred;
“You wrong yourself,” she said aloud.
She loved her brother and was proud.
Her eyes that blessed him, still demurred;
“You wrong yourself,” she said aloud.
She loved her brother and was proud.
“She would deny him—he so near
Her heart, for I am still more dear!”
The goldsmith thought; and all day long
His hammer rung it out in song;
It rung so joyous and so clear,
The neighbours stopped their work to hear;
“So near to thee, my life, so dear;”
“So dear,” it echoed, “and so near!”
Her heart, for I am still more dear!”
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His hammer rung it out in song;
It rung so joyous and so clear,
The neighbours stopped their work to hear;
“So near to thee, my life, so dear;”
“So dear,” it echoed, “and so near!”
When all the land lay dark around,
Extinguished at the curfew's sound,
And men would test what they had done
Within the compass of the sun,
The goldsmith thought: “That goodly blade
Suits well the hilt that I have made,
And silver takes a light more fair,
And shows the artist's cunning where
It oft lies hidden in the gold—
Which of itself is over-bold.
Those twisted mermaids,—rounded-flesh
Subsiding into scale,—with mesh
Of woven or upon the tail,
Shine forth more precious, being pale.”
The goldsmith turned him to his rest,
No man on all that coast so blest;
Nor less so, for a sword-hilt planned
To guard and grace a hero's hand.
Extinguished at the curfew's sound,
And men would test what they had done
Within the compass of the sun,
The goldsmith thought: “That goodly blade
Suits well the hilt that I have made,
And silver takes a light more fair,
And shows the artist's cunning where
It oft lies hidden in the gold—
Which of itself is over-bold.
Those twisted mermaids,—rounded-flesh
Subsiding into scale,—with mesh
Of woven or upon the tail,
Shine forth more precious, being pale.”
The goldsmith turned him to his rest,
No man on all that coast so blest;
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To guard and grace a hero's hand.
And Gerard at the turn of eve
His cloudy thoughts alone would weave.
“My smelting fire has served me well;
My tests have secrets still to tell;
Anon, if mine alembic hold,
That which a while ago was gold,
May pass from out the realm of sense;
What subtle thing will issue thence,—
How to be questioned, proved or caught,
I know not yet; nor, when its hold
Is loosed from grosser elements,
What awful form it may unfold;
But I do know that I am bold,
Nor likely shaken with portents.
Come I as victor from this strife,
I grasp the matter of all life!”
His cloudy thoughts alone would weave.
“My smelting fire has served me well;
My tests have secrets still to tell;
Anon, if mine alembic hold,
That which a while ago was gold,
May pass from out the realm of sense;
What subtle thing will issue thence,—
How to be questioned, proved or caught,
I know not yet; nor, when its hold
Is loosed from grosser elements,
What awful form it may unfold;
But I do know that I am bold,
Nor likely shaken with portents.
Come I as victor from this strife,
I grasp the matter of all life!”
The goldsmith took a lump of ore
And filed as he had filed before.
Then gathered up his slender toll,
And straightway on a silver bowl
He fell to work—to wreathe the rim
With flowers; careless as a whim
Of infancy to eyes unskilled,
The twisted branches played around
The pouting lip their blossoms crowned;
But one who knew, had felt beneath
The softness of that flower wreath,
How strongly, with a purpose filled,
The artist thought, the man had willed.
And filed as he had filed before.
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And straightway on a silver bowl
He fell to work—to wreathe the rim
With flowers; careless as a whim
Of infancy to eyes unskilled,
The twisted branches played around
The pouting lip their blossoms crowned;
But one who knew, had felt beneath
The softness of that flower wreath,
How strongly, with a purpose filled,
The artist thought, the man had willed.
And eyes that watched him turn about
The gold, and strike his meaning out,
With child-like eagerness were wide,
And tender with a woman's pride.
And catching of the breath, or word
Most like the cooing of a bird
Unconscious of itself, would tell
The goldsmith when he had done well.
“O love, that tendril—how it clings,—
How folds its neighbour in its rings!
Ah! limpet-flower, so frail, so fair,—
Limpet that sucks but sun and air.
The gold, and strike his meaning out,
With child-like eagerness were wide,
And tender with a woman's pride.
And catching of the breath, or word
Most like the cooing of a bird
Unconscious of itself, would tell
The goldsmith when he had done well.
“O love, that tendril—how it clings,—
How folds its neighbour in its rings!
Ah! limpet-flower, so frail, so fair,—
Limpet that sucks but sun and air.
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Ay, so its leaflets lick the ground—
Poor cloven tongues that make no sound,
And cannot cry for loss or want;
I marvel, will ye ever teach
The little prince your golden speech?
(That silver basin was a font.)
Then, when the craftsman's eager touch
Had haply made a stroke too much;
“Love, stay thy hand, nor all impart
The secret of the rose's heart!”
Poor cloven tongues that make no sound,
And cannot cry for loss or want;
I marvel, will ye ever teach
The little prince your golden speech?
(That silver basin was a font.)
Then, when the craftsman's eager touch
Had haply made a stroke too much;
“Love, stay thy hand, nor all impart
The secret of the rose's heart!”
When summoned thence by call or beck,
She hung a moment on his neck,
And looked him straightly in the eyes,—
She said; “I hold you for a God
To summon creatures at your nod,—
Call them from nothing, and they rise!”
Her passion paled her cheek like flame,
But sombre in her eyes there came
A glow from out her deepest heart;
She said no more; but all her soul
Was dispossessed,—she laid the whole
Wealth of her love,—her woman's dower—
Low at his feet, and from that hour—
Love's pensioner—if she might live
Through ages she no more could give
The man beside her, for he held
Her wholly, and no thought rebelled;—
She kept no secret to impart.
She hung a moment on his neck,
And looked him straightly in the eyes,—
She said; “I hold you for a God
To summon creatures at your nod,—
Call them from nothing, and they rise!”
Her passion paled her cheek like flame,
But sombre in her eyes there came
A glow from out her deepest heart;
She said no more; but all her soul
Was dispossessed,—she laid the whole
Wealth of her love,—her woman's dower—
Low at his feet, and from that hour—
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Through ages she no more could give
The man beside her, for he held
Her wholly, and no thought rebelled;—
She kept no secret to impart.
She went out softly;—at the door
She turned and saw the lump of ore,
Which smiling in her hand she took:
“Jesu, forgive me, who have wealth
So great, with soul and body's health,
And still the poor can overlook!”
She turned and saw the lump of ore,
Which smiling in her hand she took:
“Jesu, forgive me, who have wealth
So great, with soul and body's health,
And still the poor can overlook!”
Jesu, forgive her, if she eyed
The treasure in her hand with pride;
Her conscious meekness when she bore
The lump to add to Gerard's store,
And fain with clinging hand had quelled
The heart that still too proudly swelled;
Forgive the woman who put trust
So deep in any child of dust.
The treasure in her hand with pride;
Her conscious meekness when she bore
The lump to add to Gerard's store,
And fain with clinging hand had quelled
The heart that still too proudly swelled;
Forgive the woman who put trust
So deep in any child of dust.
“She loves him so that she would take
The mines of India for his sake,”
The goldsmith thought, and through the night
And in his sleep, in grim despite,
His hammer rung it: “For his sake;”
And, did he sleep or did he wake,
Still echoed—“For his sake, his sake!”
The mines of India for his sake,”
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And in his sleep, in grim despite,
His hammer rung it: “For his sake;”
And, did he sleep or did he wake,
Still echoed—“For his sake, his sake!”
The goldsmith took a lump of ore,
And filed as he had filed before,—
Only he longer filed, and more.
And gathering up the golden sands,
He laid them in her open hands.
“The larger share I shall use up
To-day, for I must shape a cup;
Since Jesus' blood it is to hold,
The cup will need to be of gold.”
And speaking slowly on this wise,
The goldsmith fixed her with his eyes.
And filed as he had filed before,—
Only he longer filed, and more.
And gathering up the golden sands,
He laid them in her open hands.
“The larger share I shall use up
To-day, for I must shape a cup;
Since Jesus' blood it is to hold,
The cup will need to be of gold.”
And speaking slowly on this wise,
The goldsmith fixed her with his eyes.
She answered him: “My brother's store
Is full, and when he needeth more
I'll come to thee, my life. I pray
This thing will proven be to-day—
'Twere best determined yea or nay;
The worst were that he still should grope
With marsh-fire light in lieu of hope.”
She paused; her eyes with tears were dim.
He thought: “She suffers, and through him!”
And all that day in fear and doubt
His hammer slowly rang it out:
“The heart that I would guard from loss,
Hide,—might it be,—from Christ's own cross,
Must suffer for a weakling's whim,
Must bleed, and bleed for him,—for him!' ”
Is full, and when he needeth more
I'll come to thee, my life. I pray
This thing will proven be to-day—
'Twere best determined yea or nay;
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With marsh-fire light in lieu of hope.”
She paused; her eyes with tears were dim.
He thought: “She suffers, and through him!”
And all that day in fear and doubt
His hammer slowly rang it out:
“The heart that I would guard from loss,
Hide,—might it be,—from Christ's own cross,
Must suffer for a weakling's whim,
Must bleed, and bleed for him,—for him!' ”
| Gerard's Monument | |