The collected poems of Arthur Edward Waite :: :: University of Virginia Library

I saw thee serving on a winter morn,
When all within the church was shadow-dim,
And in some pauses of the priest's deep chant
Thy voice divine, o'er all the choir behind
Pre-eminent, rang out like Michael's voice.
But when the mist began to lift without
And all the windows whiten'd, thy pure face,
Thy saintly face, through clouds of incense shone,
And as that voice rose o'er the rest supreme,
Calming the bearers' bearts, till no foot moved,
Nor bead was told, nor leaf of missal turn'd,
So shone thy virgin beauty there supreme;
One form divine o'er all adoring there
Erect as Michael stood . . . Then dream'd I thus.

The Plague had stricken in the stifling town
Its thousands down;
And all day long the sun, with blazing eye,
Burn'd in a brazen sky;
There was no wind in any lane or street,
The fervid heat
Of flints and flagstones scorch'd all passers' feet;
And after sun-down, terrible to mark,
The baleful comet smoulder'd in the dark.

At length it sank; that spell which held the breeze
Was broken then; a shiver through the trees—
As through a dreamer—pass'd;
The storm's wild spirit o'er the panting town,
Through welcome clouds, long pray'd for, now look'd down;
And, in brief pauses of a rising blast,
The sultry rain fell fast;
In vivid flashes leap'd and danced on high
The steel-blue lightning through the broken sky.

243

Through all that week the rain and tempest reign'd,
And then dense vapours lifting left unstain'd
Heaven's shining height;
The cold, clear air restored by slow degrees
Man's vanish'd vigour, and the dread disease
Ceased in a single night.
So I went forth one morning in the sun,—
Through cleansed and shining streets again went forth,—
A bracing wind was blowing from the North,
The Plague was done.

My steps were turn'd to seek the House of Prayer;
The scatter'd worshippers, in twos and threes
Assembled there,
Thank'd God for life, still trembling on their knees;
But in the chancel, serving, there wast thou,
With the same light upon thy pale, broad brow,
The same calm face, the same collected mien,
All in thy white array'd.
There was no trouble in thy face, thine eyes,
Still on thy book directed, neither turn'd
To left nor right; there was no motion seen
In thy mild lips—the soul adoring pray'd
Alone in thee; in thee no fever burn'd
Of fear or grief. . . . The stricken victim's cries,
The sudden seizure in the open road,
The dreadful silence where the pest abode,
The desolation and long reign of death,
Pass'd like a horror of the night alone
Before thy modest mien reserved and stately;
Sweet incense rose, no more the Plague's foul breath.
I heard God's silver Mass-Bell sweetly ringing,
A heart-felt Credo that the choir was singing,
No more the death-bell's tone,
No more the voice of mourning heard so lately;
And for the spotted, drawn and fever'd cheek,
The shrunken body, as an infant's weak,

244

Erect I saw thee in thy wonted place,
A youth in vigour and a maid in grace,
With auburn hair, with visage smooth and fair,
And faintly bloom'd the Rose of Beauty there.

Immortal Nature, what is pure like thee
I know is wedded to Eternity;
I know such spirits through the starry spaces
Subsist for ever with increasing graces!
O ever thus do thou, reserved apart,
Thy chaste thoughts cherish in thine inmost heart,
May they, though stain'd, who love to see thee pure,
For that be pardon'd and in that endure!
May he that sought betimes the House of Prayer
And found thee serving when the Plague was there,
Thy gentle picture ever keep within
To save his spirit from the Plague of Sin!