THE BALLAD OF MONK JULIUS.
Monk Julius lived in a wild countrie;
And never a purer monk than he
Was vowed and wedded to chastity.
The monk was fair, and the monk was young;
His mouth seemed shaped for kisses and song,
And tender his eyes, and gentle his tongue.
He loved the Virgin, as good monks should;
And he counted his beads, and kissed the rood;
But great was the pain of his manlihood.
Sweet Mary Mother,” the monk would pray,
Take thou this curse of the flesh away, —
Live me not up to the devil's sway.
Oh, make me pure as thine own pure Son!
My thoughts are fain to be thine, each one;
But body and soul are alike undone.”
And, even while praying, there came, between
Himself who prayed and Heaven's own Queen,
A delicate presence, more felt than seen, —
The sense of woman though none was there,
Her beauty near, her breath on the air,
Almost the touch of her hand on his hair;
And when night came, and he fell on sleep,
Warm tears in a dream his eyes would weep,
For strange, bright shapes that he might not keep, —
The fair dream-girls who leaned o'er his bed,
Who held his hand, and whose kisses were shed
On his lips — for a monk's too full and red.
O fair dream-women with flowing tresses
And loosened vesture! Their soft caresses
Thrilled him through to his soul's recesses.
He woke on fire, with rioting blood,
To scourge himself and to kiss the rood,
And to fear the strength of his manlihood.
One stormy night, when Christ's birth was nigh,
When snow lay thick, and the winds were high
'Twixt the large light land and the large light sky,
Monk Julius knelt in his cell's scant light,
And prayed, “If any be out to-night,
O Mother Mary, guide them aright.”
Then there came to his ears, o'er the wastes of snow,
The dreadest of sounds, now loud, now low, —
The cry of the wolves, that howl as they go.
Then followed a light quick tap at the door;
The monk rose up from the cell's cold floor,
And opened it, crossing himself once more.
A girl stood there, and “The Wolves!” she cried.
“No danger now, daughter,” the monk replied,
And drew the beautiful woman inside, —
For fair she was, as few women are fair,
And tall and shapely; her great gold hair
Crowned her brows, that as ivory were.
Her deep blue eyes were two homes of light,
Soft moons of beauty to his dark night, —
What fairness was this to pasture sight?
But the sight was sin; so he turned away
And knelt him down yet again to pray;
But not one prayer could his starved lips say.
And, as he knelt, he became aware
Of a light hand passing across his hair,
And a sudden fragrance filled the air.
He raised his eyes, and they met her own, —
How blue hers were, how they yearned and shone!
Her waist was girt with a jewelled zone;
But aside it slipped from her silken vest,
And the monk's eyes fell on her snowy breast,
Of her marvellous beauties the loveliest.
The monk sprang up, and he cried, “O bliss!”
His lips sought hers in a desperate kiss;
He had given his soul to make her his.
But he clasped no woman; no woman was there —
Only the laughter of fiends on the air;
The monk was snared in the devil's own snare.
