University of Virginia Library

THE MINSTER OF ELD.

PROLOGUE.

Minster of Eld! in thy sweet solemn shade
How pleasant is it thus apart to roam!
Here for myself a shelter I have made;
In thee my pilgrim spirit finds a home.
Hither withdrawing from the day's false glare,
From earthliness and all that breeds annoy,
She hath wrought out a resting-place from care,
And drinks unwatch'd from hidden fount of joy;
Oh, cruel world that would such happiness destroy!
For while in quiet thought I wander on,
These peaceful courts along,
Too oft its clangours sound
And jar the golden chords so finely strung
On which my soul had hung;
Then sinks the Minster in a depth profound,
And alone I seem to stand
On some disenchanted land,
Lost upon a desert drear,
All a blank to eye and ear,
Seeking ofttimes long in vain
Ere I can return again.
Ah me! what time hath pass'd
Since here I enter'd last!
Almost I seem a stranger here to be,
As though no right I had
Mine own dear shrine to see.
Oh, archetypal Place!
Pure mystery of space!
Which, as my glance around I throw,
Dost into clearer outline grow.
Oh, music that above me sweeps
Like anthem of uplifted deeps!
Oh, roof of roofs sublime,
Wrought in the world's young prime!
Oh, pillars firm, that seem
Vaster than thought may dream!
Oh, lights and shades that fall
So strange and mystical,
Crossing from wall to wall!
Oh, tints most rare!
Oh, gently-breathing air!
Oh, floor so green and fair!
Here let me dwell
Choosing some holy cell;
Here let me sit and sing to solemn chord
Thy works O loving Lord!
Joying to tell of Thee
Who madest all to be;
Joying with all creation to proclaim
The glories of Thy Name,
Great King of kings!
Lord of invisible things!
Lord of the starry skies, of earth and air and sea!

SCENE I.

Nave of a vast Minster.

PILGRIM.
[He reads.
[He proceeds up the nave.

SHEPHERD BOY.
Nay, sir, not much
Myself, but not so far away there dwells
A Hermit of Mount Carmel, who can tell thee
All thou shalt choose to ask. If thou art thirsty,
Here is a most sweet spring; and I entreat thee
Take bread from my poor scrip. Oh, I have seen
Strange things upon the plain since I came hither
To keep this flock in charge. The Angel Choirs,
The same that sang in Bethlehem, oft I've heard
Singing o'erhead in the still moonlight hour.
If thou wilt go with me, I'll show the way
To where the Hermit lives. But I must call
My little sister first to take my place,
Now absent gathering anemones
To weave a necklace for some favourite
Among her lambkins. She will hasten back
Soon as she hears this pipe.

[He plays, and they proceed together.

SCENE II.

An open plain in the nave.

PILGRIM.
We have been stepping fast, and must have come
A league upon our way.

SHEPHERD BOY.
'Tis difficult,
I've noticed, to judge here of distances.
What seem'd remote but now being often found
At hand when least expected; what seem'd near
In turn far off; such mystery there is
In all that to this Minster appertains.

PILGRIM.
[Music.

SHEPHERD BOY.
There are strange harps,
Pendent at intervals by golden threads
Along the nave, whence spring these gracious sounds,
As it would seem, spontaneous. Come this way,
And I will show thee one. Lo! where it hangs;
Would it were near enough for thee to touch!

PILGRIM.
O beauteous Instrument! O Harp of eld!
What symmetry it hath, resembling those
Of th' ancient Druids! with a hoary moss
Of silver sprouting on its delicate frame!
But for the present mute!

SHEPHERD BOY.
It will begin
To sound again, if we but wait. I see
Already a vibration in the chords.

[It sounds, gradually increasing in depth and variety.
PILGRIM.
O miracle of tones!
O most divine capacity
In instrument so slight and delicate!
Or is it rather that the music flows
Not from the chords themselves, but from the stir
Which by some deep affinity they work
In the surrounding natural influences?
It must be so. For now it sounds afar,
Now near, now all around, in height and depth
Ascending and descending through the scales
Of such a multitudinous harmony,
As though within itself it did embrace
All the wide compass of creation's tones.
Now 'tis the tinkling of a shower—and now
The whistling wind—anon the solemn roll
Of mountain waves, changing by slow degrees
To muttering thunder. Oh, I could stay and listen
For ever to the ever-varying strain,
So jubilant awhile; and then so sad,
Enough to melt the very soul away
With its deep hidden pathos!

SHEPHERD BOY.
I have heard say,
The tones of jubilation are the praise
Which Nature pays her Lord; the sad her moans
For her own fall in Adam; mix'd with yearnings
For the great Day of Restitution,
When all things shall in Christ be made anew.
But see the spot where dwells the holy Hermit
I told thee of!

PILGRIM.
I see it:—a long range
Of curious cells scoop'd in the solid rock,
With immemorial ivy over-brow'd;
In front a sloping sward, on which appears
A broken altar of th' old Pagan time,
If right I guess.

SHEPHERD BOY.
Here, then, I leave thee, Pilgrim;
My task complete: God's blessing rest on thee!

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Front of a Hermitage. The Hermit is seen carving a Crucifix on the rock.

HERMIT.
Another touch might mar it. Holy Christ!
Who so for me didst die on Calvary,
Accept this poor memorial of Thy love,
Which here upon my knees I dedicate
To th' everlasting glory of Thy Name.

PILGRIM,
entering.

Forgive me, holy Hermit, breaking thus
Upon thy solitude. A shepherd boy
Guided me here to thee, as one who might
Resolve for me the meaning of this place.
[Observing the Crucifix.
O work of grace! What glorious majesty
Sits on the brow, with depth of patient grief
Divinely mingled! wonders have I seen
Of art, but none like this.

HERMIT.
No art is here
But that of love and contemplation;
A longer gaze would show thee sore defects
In what at present pleases. 'Tis the work
Of hands most rude and inexperienced.
But if concerning this our Minster here
Knowledge thou seek, I have some certain Rhymes
Which to the Pilgrims who go by this way
Sometimes I do impart; these will I gladly
Rehearse to thee, as best my memory serves;
We sitting by yon altar-step the while.

[They approach the altar.
PILGRIM.
This altar hath most excellent proportions,
Ionic in its style, and, as 'twould seem,
Of purest Parian. Pity that 'tis rent
As by some shock of sudden violence.
Its dedication still is legible
In Greek: ‘to the unknown god.’

HERMIT.
This neighbourhood
The Pagans of old time did much frequent,
Such as with hearts sincere, in nature's works
Felt after nature's omnipresent God,
If haply they might find Him. These were they
Who first began to scoop these hermitages.
This altar was their making. Here with rites
Of solemn patriarchal sacrifice,
Confused with errors of strange ignorance,
Did they adore the Almighty Architect,
Their God unknown, yearning for clearer light
Of Revelation's dawn, as yet withheld:
Later there came the Christian anchorites,
And multiplied the cells, as now you see.

PILGRIM.
And this deep-fissured rent;—how came it thus?

HERMIT.
It is believed that when our Saviour died,
That earthquake, which upheaved the sepulchres,
Ran also through this Minster in its course,
And, among other traces, left behind
This shatter'd altar.

PILGRIM
There is a pleasant moss
Upon this bank that faceth to the East;
Here let us sit. It hath grown visibly lighter
Since I was in the Minster, and the mist
Hath much dispersed. How most majestically
Doth yonder neighbouring pillar lift its height,
So vast it scarcely seems to be a pillar,
And in comparison those cells in the rock
Appear to be no bigger than the holes
Of the sand-martin! I saw Staffa once,
And marvell'd; but a thousand Staffas here,
Ascending from basaltic height to height,
Seem piled upon each other without end.
Yonder, across the plain, on the other side
Of the broad Nave, a solemn Porch appears,
Between which and the Transept I can count
The huge Titanic figured capitals
Of twenty several columns, peering forth
Through their thin strata of aërial cloud,
As in the Pyrenees the crested peaks
At morning-tide. But I am quite forgetting,
Lost in the mighty majesty around,
Thy promise, hoary-headed Solitary,
Me to instruct in its deep mysteries.

HERMIT.

PILGRIM.
Thanks kind Interpreter; I now begin
Better to comprehend the great design
Unfolding all around: yet, oh, forgive,
If of yon Porch which in the distance shows
So vast and dim, unnoticed in thy Rhyme,
I dare to make of thee inquiry brief,
Touch'd with a strange and growing interest,
Whither it leads, what comes or goes thereby.

HERMIT.
Know, Pilgrim, then, besides the Western door
Thou sawest first, the Minster hath two gates,
Which, opening out upon th' unseen abyss,
Entrance the one, the other exit gives
To nature's forms. Within the Nave they stand,
Southward and Northward upon either side,
Facing each other, and to each its Porch
Attach'd, whereof the Southern one is named
The Porch of Life, for thereby entrance find
Organic things in their predestined mould
Into the world of sense; its opposite,
The Porch of Death, and thither all again
They tend; for, coming forth from the unknown,
And having wrought, each in its several shape,
Their task assign'd, straightway they onward go,
Absorb'd into their several elements,
(Save what of man substantially endures
Imperishable by divine decree)
Through Death's dread Portal to the gulf again.
Yonder it looms, so drear and shadowy,
On the left hand, before thy very gaze!

PILGRIM.
Ah! e'en from here
Methinks I feel its chilly influence.
And now, as I remember me again
Of that sharp fever which I had of late
Nigh unto death, and of the wanderings strange
Wherein my soul was borne;
Within myself I seem to recognise
That I to that same Porch
In spirit was led on
By Sickness, vision pale:
And in its solemn vestibule did stand,
And there half-open'd spied
The unrelenting door;
And felt the outer air from the abyss
Breathe coldly on my cheek;
And in the dimness saw,
Where all amid the ever-vanishing crowd
Death solitary sate, wrapt in his sable shroud.
Ah, then my step
Had all but slipp'd,
Its footing lost and gone,
And I unto myself had said:
‘The world's inhabitants
No more shall I behold,
Nor Nature's gladsome brow;’
But One to me did reach his hand,
And drew me back to light and life again,
That I might better serve him, so to win
His pardoning grace before I pass away.
Now of that other Porch,
The Porch of Life, I fain would something know,
For it I have not seen.

HERMIT.
Thou sawest it once
And passedst through it, but rememberest not,
For it was in thy new-born infancy;
A wondrous spot, the womb of all that lives.
Upon this Southern side its station is,
Beyond our present view:
No blasts of winter there
Chilling the air;
No darkness dwells, nor spectral forms are seen,
But evermore an atmosphere serene
Thrills on the sense; and a strange stir of joy
Admitting nought that grieves
Or genders any pain,
Prevails, as of unnumber'd opening leaves
In a warm hour of April sunshine coy,
After the falling rain;
While Hope for ever guards the gate,
And Angels of the Morn attendant wait.

PILGRIM.
O Hermit blest,
But I would yet one question ask,
If me thou wilt not chide.
Lo! now from Death's dread Gate
Granted for once reprieve,
Too certainly I know the day draws nigh
When I a second time must thither go,
And back return no more
To this terrestrial strand,
But onward wend across the solemn sea,
Whose other shore is our eternal land.
Then in the formless deep
Plunging without a hold
On aught to nature known,
What may my soul betide
Immortal borne along,
Ofttimes I shuddering meditate,
Conscious of ill-desert and fill'd with fears untold.
Oh, say, if there be not some other door
Whereby we may go forth
And find a surer way
Across the illimitable dim profound?

HERMIT.
Thou speakest well; such door indeed there is;
But in the Choir it stands,
Far distant from this spot,
Upon the further side of yonder screen,
Within the Lady Chapel, at the back
Of the High Altar. A postern-gate it is
Of pearly semblance, and once open'd leads
Right out upon the arch that Heavenward spans
Th' impalpable abyss.
But so withdrawn it lies,
That many pass thereby and see it not.
Moreover, though the door was in its place
Since first this Minster rose,
Yet only of late years
Hath it to human effort open been;
For ever since the Fall
Closed it remain'd by double bolts outside,
Which none might draw, there being no way thither
Save by a circuit long,
First through the Gate of Death,
And then all round, coasting the outer edge
Of the great Minster wall,
Till to the back ye came;
And this no man might do:
For each no sooner pass'd the gate of death
Than down at once he sank
In the sheer nameless deep,
Quite impotent upon the void to tread;
Therefore long time the pearly door was closed.
Yet by tradition in part,
In part by instinct, to lost Adam's race
The secret way was known,
And whitherward it led.
This prompted men to search,
And many were the schemes
Which fancy or philosophy devised,
Or round the gulf to pass and draw the bolts,
Or else the gate to force,
Or through the wall to cleave some other road.
But all in vain was tried;
To Heaven's high pinnacles no path was found,
Until Emmanuel came,
Predicted of our race,
Of Virgin Mother born,
Mighty in word and deed,
Prince and High-Priest and Sacrifice in one.
He of his own accord
Did through the grave and gate of death proceed,
And entering on the void,
Trod with firm foot th' unsearchable expanse,
As on the sea of Galilee before;
Till passing round, up to that door He came,
To th' hinder part, and there both bolts withdrew,
Opening the way of everlasting life
Thenceforth to mortal man!
Oh, day of victory!
How with triumphant notes
This Minster did resound!
What music then was heard through earth and Heaven!
Sweeter by far than at Creation's dawn,
When all the morning stars sang out for joy!

PILGRIM,
bowing his head.

All praise to Him who wrought this wondrous work,
At price of His own Blood! Oh, lead me on,
That I at once that heavenly door may see,
That arch may climb, and fleet away
From earth without delay
To the clear realms of immortality.

HERMIT.
Thy time is not as yet. The Lord hath work
For thee below. O Pilgrim, here we part;
But let these words sink in thine inmost heart:
If thou that door wouldst see
Unclose to thee,
Long must thou toil, and patient must thou be,
And bended oft thy knee;
Confiding still in nothing of thine own
But in the grace of thy dear God alone.

EPILOGUE.