Master and Scholar etc. etc. By E. H. Plumptre: Second edition with notes |
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II.—A.D. 1142.
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 | Master and Scholar |  |
II.—A.D. 1142.
And so that life is ended. Rest at last,
After long wandering on the troubled sea,
Comes to the sailor shipwrecked, tempest-tost;
The fevered sufferer sinks to dreamless sleep,
And never more shall that clear eye flash fire,
Against his foes or mine, nor that strong voice
Rise high above the babbling strife of tongues,
In mightiest self-assertion. Bernard now
May leave his dust to moulder in the grave,
And rest in peace. And I, who hear, am calm;
No master-passion melts my soul in tears,
My sorrow does not overflow its bounds.
My heart is calm to search and scan its grief.
Yes! I who once found all my world in him,
Who for him lost fair fame, and holy peace,
Who night and morning dreamt of nought but him,
Who breathed his name in every secret prayer,
I hear the tidings, “He at last is gone,”
As though 'twere but a neighbour whom one greets,
From week to week with nod of kindly mood,
And else knows nought of.
After long wandering on the troubled sea,
Comes to the sailor shipwrecked, tempest-tost;
The fevered sufferer sinks to dreamless sleep,
And never more shall that clear eye flash fire,
Against his foes or mine, nor that strong voice
Rise high above the babbling strife of tongues,
In mightiest self-assertion. Bernard now
May leave his dust to moulder in the grave,
And rest in peace. And I, who hear, am calm;
No master-passion melts my soul in tears,
My sorrow does not overflow its bounds.
My heart is calm to search and scan its grief.
Yes! I who once found all my world in him,
Who for him lost fair fame, and holy peace,
Who night and morning dreamt of nought but him,
Who breathed his name in every secret prayer,
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As though 'twere but a neighbour whom one greets,
From week to week with nod of kindly mood,
And else knows nought of.
Yet with him there lies
All that my soul once knew of light and warmth,
All the bright day-dreams of my opening life;
Long since they died, and in the grave of love
Embalmed I laid them. Now the vault is oped
That he may lie there. Soon the years shall bring
Their longed-for end, and then the shadowy gates,
Thrown wide, shall welcome me. Meantime I live,
And do my work, and travel o'er the past,
And weigh and scan his merits who was once
The idol of my passion. Now I see
How poor the idol, how the head of gold
Passed on to baser metal, mire and clay;
The lordly, wide-embracing intellect
To low desire, that tainted, poisoned all,
The canker that devoured the goodliest bloom
And made it fruitless. So, alas! it was
With him, with me. The noblest gifts of God,
The worthiest work as vessel of the Truth,
He cast aside, flung reckless in the mire,
Lost his true life, and left Christ's chosen bride
For me, poor frail one. Dare I murmur now
That this all vanished like a fevered dream,
And had its stern awakening, that for me
Came scorn, reproach, life worn before its time,
Hair gray, cheeks faded, sky o'ercast and dim,
The throbbings of a heart that will not heal.
Yes, I have paid the forfeit. Not for me
The blessing which the poorest peasant wife
Finds in the name of Mother: guilt and shame,
These threw their shadows o'er my new-born joy,
And he, my child, my boy, my Astrolabe,
(Name telling of ill stars and evil days,)
Was taken from me. Not for me the bliss
Of infant's lips, soft touch, and joyous smile:
I might not part the golden locks that streamed
On either side the clear and noble brow,
Nor teach the soul its song of joy and praise,
Nor when the boy was ripening to the man,
Receive the homage, hearty, frank, and true
Of son to mother. Far and far away,
Beyond the frozen snows on Alpine heights,
The boy grew up; and now the man lives on,
And little knows the story of his birth,
Nor heeds the prayers which, day by day, rise up
Like incense from the altar of my heart.
All that my soul once knew of light and warmth,
All the bright day-dreams of my opening life;
Long since they died, and in the grave of love
Embalmed I laid them. Now the vault is oped
That he may lie there. Soon the years shall bring
Their longed-for end, and then the shadowy gates,
Thrown wide, shall welcome me. Meantime I live,
And do my work, and travel o'er the past,
And weigh and scan his merits who was once
The idol of my passion. Now I see
How poor the idol, how the head of gold
Passed on to baser metal, mire and clay;
The lordly, wide-embracing intellect
To low desire, that tainted, poisoned all,
The canker that devoured the goodliest bloom
And made it fruitless. So, alas! it was
With him, with me. The noblest gifts of God,
The worthiest work as vessel of the Truth,
He cast aside, flung reckless in the mire,
Lost his true life, and left Christ's chosen bride
For me, poor frail one. Dare I murmur now
That this all vanished like a fevered dream,
And had its stern awakening, that for me
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Hair gray, cheeks faded, sky o'ercast and dim,
The throbbings of a heart that will not heal.
Yes, I have paid the forfeit. Not for me
The blessing which the poorest peasant wife
Finds in the name of Mother: guilt and shame,
These threw their shadows o'er my new-born joy,
And he, my child, my boy, my Astrolabe,
(Name telling of ill stars and evil days,)
Was taken from me. Not for me the bliss
Of infant's lips, soft touch, and joyous smile:
I might not part the golden locks that streamed
On either side the clear and noble brow,
Nor teach the soul its song of joy and praise,
Nor when the boy was ripening to the man,
Receive the homage, hearty, frank, and true
Of son to mother. Far and far away,
Beyond the frozen snows on Alpine heights,
The boy grew up; and now the man lives on,
And little knows the story of his birth,
Nor heeds the prayers which, day by day, rise up
Like incense from the altar of my heart.
This was my heavy burden: and for him,
The partner of my passion and my sin,
A ceaseless strife of fightings and of fears,
Wrong past all speech, a life without a home,
Fame grasping its own shadow, bitter hate
From those who loved the darkness more than light;
Or, harder still to bear, distrust and grief
From those who loved the light, and lived in truth,
And saw in him the root of every ill,
A will self-centred, scorn of lowlier souls,
The pride that in the chambers of its heart
Sets up its secret idols? No, my God,
I give Thee thanks for all. There might have been
Far heavier judgment. Thicker veil of night
Might still have hid the evil. Fame and power
Might have been his beyond his heart's desire,
Chief place among the shepherds of the flock,
Gray hairs, full honour, and a name to live
Among the saints of God. Ah! tenfold worse
That life of semblance with its show of health,
Its inward rottenness, than all the pain,
The sharp, keen goads that gave not rest nor peace
Until their work was done, and all the soul
Was cleansed and humbled. False those dreams of yore;
Truth's chosen ones are cast in other mould,
Her victories won by other strategy;
No skill of speech, nor daring, prompt to try
New paths through all the cloud-girt Infinite,
No life where sense and soul hold equal sway,
And soon sense masters soul. Her seal is set
On those who love her for herself alone,
Who woo with lowly heart her favouring smile,
And seek her wisdom secretly; pure souls,
On whom no touch of sense has left its stain,
Who go their way through gathering mists and clouds,
Light-bearers in the darkness. They can own
God's footprints in the story of the past,
His love through all the present, and, far off,
Hail the bright future. Once I dreamt that he
Would bear that light, and, foremost, near the throne,
Take rank with those, the star-crowned cherubim,
Excelling most in knowledge. Now I see,
His name upon the charts of life shall stand
To tell of shoals on which the noblest ship
Made utter wreck, and men shall point to it,
Some, half in scorn, and some, in tenderer grief,
“Lo! this was Abelard.”
The partner of my passion and my sin,
A ceaseless strife of fightings and of fears,
Wrong past all speech, a life without a home,
Fame grasping its own shadow, bitter hate
146
Or, harder still to bear, distrust and grief
From those who loved the light, and lived in truth,
And saw in him the root of every ill,
A will self-centred, scorn of lowlier souls,
The pride that in the chambers of its heart
Sets up its secret idols? No, my God,
I give Thee thanks for all. There might have been
Far heavier judgment. Thicker veil of night
Might still have hid the evil. Fame and power
Might have been his beyond his heart's desire,
Chief place among the shepherds of the flock,
Gray hairs, full honour, and a name to live
Among the saints of God. Ah! tenfold worse
That life of semblance with its show of health,
Its inward rottenness, than all the pain,
The sharp, keen goads that gave not rest nor peace
Until their work was done, and all the soul
Was cleansed and humbled. False those dreams of yore;
Truth's chosen ones are cast in other mould,
Her victories won by other strategy;
No skill of speech, nor daring, prompt to try
New paths through all the cloud-girt Infinite,
No life where sense and soul hold equal sway,
And soon sense masters soul. Her seal is set
On those who love her for herself alone,
Who woo with lowly heart her favouring smile,
And seek her wisdom secretly; pure souls,
On whom no touch of sense has left its stain,
147
Light-bearers in the darkness. They can own
God's footprints in the story of the past,
His love through all the present, and, far off,
Hail the bright future. Once I dreamt that he
Would bear that light, and, foremost, near the throne,
Take rank with those, the star-crowned cherubim,
Excelling most in knowledge. Now I see,
His name upon the charts of life shall stand
To tell of shoals on which the noblest ship
Made utter wreck, and men shall point to it,
Some, half in scorn, and some, in tenderer grief,
“Lo! this was Abelard.”
Be mine the shame,
If spirits hear from out the gates of death
The converse of the living, still to bear
That long, long penance of a tainted name,
The sin remembered, all the rest forgot;
Only do Thou, divinest Paraclete,
Who dost not scorn the bruised and contrite heart,
To whom we turned in bitterness of soul,
Only do Thou give wisdom, e'er the night
Shall fall, to do Thy work, Thy freedom give,
And though the cares that harass and perplex,
Give patience, meekness, hope; and thus, at last,
Cleanse this poor heart from all its earthly love,
And fill it with the love that changes not,
The Charity Eternal.
If spirits hear from out the gates of death
The converse of the living, still to bear
That long, long penance of a tainted name,
The sin remembered, all the rest forgot;
Only do Thou, divinest Paraclete,
Who dost not scorn the bruised and contrite heart,
To whom we turned in bitterness of soul,
Only do Thou give wisdom, e'er the night
Shall fall, to do Thy work, Thy freedom give,
And though the cares that harass and perplex,
Give patience, meekness, hope; and thus, at last,
Cleanse this poor heart from all its earthly love,
And fill it with the love that changes not,
The Charity Eternal.
| Master and Scholar | |