 | The Land of Light and other Hymns of Faith and Hope |  |
46
SANCTA THERESA
“Mihi oppidum carcer, et solitudo Paradisus est.”—Jerome.
“O quoties in eremo constitutus, putabam me Romanis interesse deliciis. . . Ille ego qui ob gehennae metum tali me carcere damnaveram, sæpe choris intereram puellarum. Pallebant ora jejuniis, et mens desideriis æstuabat, . . sola libidinum incendia bulliebant. Sunt qui humore cellularum, immoderatisque jejuniis, tædio solitudinis, ac nimia lectione, vertuntus in melancholiam.” —Idem.
This is no heaven!
And yet they told me that all heaven was here,
This life the foretaste of a life more dear;
That all beyond this convent-cell
Was but a fairer hell;
That all was ecstasy and song within,
That all without was tempest, gloom, and sin.
Ah me, it is not so;
This is no heaven, I know!
And yet they told me that all heaven was here,
This life the foretaste of a life more dear;
That all beyond this convent-cell
Was but a fairer hell;
That all was ecstasy and song within,
That all without was tempest, gloom, and sin.
Ah me, it is not so;
This is no heaven, I know!
47
This is not rest!
And yet they told me that all rest was here,
Within these walls the medicine and the cheer
For broken hearts; that all without
Was trembling, weariness, and doubt:
This the sure ark which floats above the wave,
Strong in life's flood to shelter and to save;
This the still mountain-lake,
Which winds can never shake.
Ah me, it is not so;
This is not rest, I know!
And yet they told me that all rest was here,
Within these walls the medicine and the cheer
For broken hearts; that all without
Was trembling, weariness, and doubt:
This the sure ark which floats above the wave,
Strong in life's flood to shelter and to save;
This the still mountain-lake,
Which winds can never shake.
Ah me, it is not so;
This is not rest, I know!
48
This is not light!
And yet they told me that all light was here,
Light of the holier sphere;
That, through this lattice seen,
Clearer and more serene,
The clear stars ever shone,
Shining for me alone;
And the bright moon more bright,
Seen in the lone blue night
By ever-watching eyes,
The sun of convent-skies.
Ah me, it is not so;
This is not light, I know!
And yet they told me that all light was here,
Light of the holier sphere;
That, through this lattice seen,
Clearer and more serene,
The clear stars ever shone,
Shining for me alone;
And the bright moon more bright,
Seen in the lone blue night
By ever-watching eyes,
The sun of convent-skies.
Ah me, it is not so;
This is not light, I know!
49
This is not love!
And yet they told me that all love was here,
Sweetening the silent atmosphere;
All green, without a faded leaf,
All smooth, without a fret, or cross, or grief;
Fresh as young May,
Yet calm as autumn's softest day;
No balm like convent-air,
No hues of Paradise so fair!
A jealous, peevish, hating world beyond;
Within, love's loveliest bond:
Envy and discord in the haunts of men;
Here, Eden's harmony again.
Ah me, it is not so;
Here is no love, I know!
And yet they told me that all love was here,
Sweetening the silent atmosphere;
All green, without a faded leaf,
All smooth, without a fret, or cross, or grief;
Fresh as young May,
Yet calm as autumn's softest day;
No balm like convent-air,
No hues of Paradise so fair!
A jealous, peevish, hating world beyond;
Within, love's loveliest bond:
Envy and discord in the haunts of men;
Here, Eden's harmony again.
Ah me, it is not so;
Here is no love, I know!
50
This is not home!
And yet for this I left my girlhood's bower,
Shook the fresh dew from April's budding flower,
Cut off my golden hair,
Forsook the dear and fair,
And fled, as from a serpent's eyes,
Home and its holiest charities;
Instead of all things beautiful,
Took this decaying skull,
Hour after hour to feed my eye,
As if foul gaze like this could purify;
Broke the sweet ties that God had given,
And sought to win His heaven
By leaving home-work all undone,
The home-race all unrun.
And yet for this I left my girlhood's bower,
Shook the fresh dew from April's budding flower,
Cut off my golden hair,
Forsook the dear and fair,
And fled, as from a serpent's eyes,
Home and its holiest charities;
Instead of all things beautiful,
Took this decaying skull,
Hour after hour to feed my eye,
As if foul gaze like this could purify;
Broke the sweet ties that God had given,
And sought to win His heaven
By leaving home-work all undone,
The home-race all unrun.
51
The fair home-garden all untilled,
The home-affections all unfilled;
As if these common rounds of work and love
Were drags to one whose spirit soared above
Life's tame and easy circle, and who fain
Would earn her crown by self-sought toil and pain;
Led captive by a mystic power,
Dazzled by visions in the moody hour,
When, sick of earth, and self, and vanity,
I longed to be alone or die;
Mocked by my own self-brooding heart,
And plied with every wile and art
That could seduce a young and yearning soul
To start for some mysterious goal,
And seek, in cell or savage waste,
The cure of blighted hope and love misplaced.
The home-affections all unfilled;
As if these common rounds of work and love
Were drags to one whose spirit soared above
Life's tame and easy circle, and who fain
Would earn her crown by self-sought toil and pain;
Led captive by a mystic power,
Dazzled by visions in the moody hour,
When, sick of earth, and self, and vanity,
I longed to be alone or die;
Mocked by my own self-brooding heart,
And plied with every wile and art
That could seduce a young and yearning soul
To start for some mysterious goal,
And seek, in cell or savage waste,
The cure of blighted hope and love misplaced.
52
Yet 'tis not the hard bed, nor lattice small,
Nor the dull damp of this cold convent wall;
'Tis not the frost on these thick prison-bars,
Nor the keen shiver of these wintry stars;
Not this coarse raiment, nor this coarser food,
Nor bloodless lip of withering womanhood:
'Tis not all these that make me sigh and fret,
'Tis something deeper yet—
The unutterable void within,
The dark fierce warfare with this heart of sin,
The inner bondage, fever, storm, and woe,
The hopeless conflict with my hellish foe,
'Gainst whom this grated lattice is no shield,
To whom this cell is victory's chosen field.
Nor the dull damp of this cold convent wall;
'Tis not the frost on these thick prison-bars,
Nor the keen shiver of these wintry stars;
Not this coarse raiment, nor this coarser food,
Nor bloodless lip of withering womanhood:
'Tis not all these that make me sigh and fret,
'Tis something deeper yet—
The unutterable void within,
The dark fierce warfare with this heart of sin,
The inner bondage, fever, storm, and woe,
The hopeless conflict with my hellish foe,
'Gainst whom this grated lattice is no shield,
To whom this cell is victory's chosen field.
53
Here is no balm
For stricken hearts, no calm
For fevered souls, no cure
For minds diseased: the impure
Becomes impurer in this stagnant air;
My cell becomes my tempter and my snare;
And vainer dreams than e'er I dreamt before
Crowd in at its low door.
And have I fled, my God, from Thee,
From thy glad love and liberty,
And left the road where blessings fall like light,
For self-made by-paths shaded o'er with night?
Oh lead me back, my God,
To the forsaken road,
Life's common beat, that there,
Even in the midst of toil and care,
I may find Thee
And in Thy love be free!
For stricken hearts, no calm
For fevered souls, no cure
For minds diseased: the impure
Becomes impurer in this stagnant air;
My cell becomes my tempter and my snare;
And vainer dreams than e'er I dreamt before
Crowd in at its low door.
And have I fled, my God, from Thee,
From thy glad love and liberty,
And left the road where blessings fall like light,
For self-made by-paths shaded o'er with night?
Oh lead me back, my God,
To the forsaken road,
Life's common beat, that there,
Even in the midst of toil and care,
I may find Thee
And in Thy love be free!
| The Land of Light and other Hymns of Faith and Hope | |