 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
194
L'ABBATE.
Were it not for that singular smell
That seems to the genus priest to belong,
Where snuff and incense are mingled well
With a natural odour quite as strong:
Were it not for those little ways
Of clasped and deprecating hands;
And of raising and lowering his eyes always
As if he only waited commands—
That seems to the genus priest to belong,
Where snuff and incense are mingled well
With a natural odour quite as strong:
Were it not for those little ways
Of clasped and deprecating hands;
And of raising and lowering his eyes always
As if he only waited commands—
Little there is in him of the priest,
With only the slightest touch of cant,
With a simple, guileless heart in his breast,
And a mind as honest as ignorant.
Half a child and half a man,
Ripe in the Fathers and green in thought,
In his little circle of half a span
He thinks that he thinks what he was taught.
With only the slightest touch of cant,
With a simple, guileless heart in his breast,
And a mind as honest as ignorant.
Half a child and half a man,
Ripe in the Fathers and green in thought,
In his little circle of half a span
He thinks that he thinks what he was taught.
His duty he does to the scruple's weight;
Recites his prayers, and mumbles his mass,
And without his litanies, early and late,
Never permits a day to pass.
Look at him there in the garden-plots
Repeating his office, as to and fro
He paces around the orange-pots,
Looking about while his quick lips go.
Recites his prayers, and mumbles his mass,
And without his litanies, early and late,
Never permits a day to pass.
Look at him there in the garden-plots
Repeating his office, as to and fro
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Looking about while his quick lips go.
His simple pleasure in simple things,
His willing spirit that never tires,
His trivial jokes and wonderings,
His peaceful temper that never fires,
His joy over trifles of every day,
The feeble poems he loves to quote,—
Are just like a child, with his heart in his play,
While his duty and lessons are drill and rote.
His willing spirit that never tires,
His trivial jokes and wonderings,
His peaceful temper that never fires,
His joy over trifles of every day,
The feeble poems he loves to quote,—
Are just like a child, with his heart in his play,
While his duty and lessons are drill and rote.
What life means he does not think;
Reason and thought he has been told
Only lead to a perilous brink,
Away from Christ and the Church's fold.
Therefore he humbly and blindly obeys;
Does what he 's ordered and reasons not;
Performs his prayers, and thinks he prays,
And asks not how, or why, or what.
Reason and thought he has been told
Only lead to a perilous brink,
Away from Christ and the Church's fold.
Therefore he humbly and blindly obeys;
Does what he 's ordered and reasons not;
Performs his prayers, and thinks he prays,
And asks not how, or why, or what.
Happy in this, why stir his mind,
Stagnant in thought although it be?
Leave him alone—he is gentle and kind,
And blest with a child's simplicity.
Thinking would only give him unrest,
Struggle, and toil, and inward strain;
His heart is right in his thoughtless breast,
Why should one wish to torment his brain?
Stagnant in thought although it be?
Leave him alone—he is gentle and kind,
And blest with a child's simplicity.
Thinking would only give him unrest,
Struggle, and toil, and inward strain;
His heart is right in his thoughtless breast,
Why should one wish to torment his brain?
196
Yet out of pastime one evil day
I unfolded to him Pythagoras' plan—
How step by step the soul made its way
From sea-anemone up to man,—
How onward to higher grades it went,
If its human life had been fair and pure;
Or if not, to the lower scale was sent,
Again to ascend to man, and endure.
I unfolded to him Pythagoras' plan—
How step by step the soul made its way
From sea-anemone up to man,—
How onward to higher grades it went,
If its human life had been fair and pure;
Or if not, to the lower scale was sent,
Again to ascend to man, and endure.
And so the soul had gleams of the past,
And felt in itself dim sympathies
With nature, that ended in us at last,
And each of whose forms within us lies.
He smiled at first, and then by degrees
Grew silent and sad, and confessed 't was true,
But with spirit so pained and ill at ease,
That my foolish work I strove to undo.
And felt in itself dim sympathies
With nature, that ended in us at last,
And each of whose forms within us lies.
He smiled at first, and then by degrees
Grew silent and sad, and confessed 't was true,
But with spirit so pained and ill at ease,
That my foolish work I strove to undo.
This thinking 's the spawn of Satan, I said,
That tempts us into the sea of doubt;
And Satan has endless snares to spread,
If once with our reason we venture out.
Here you are in your Church like a port,
Anchored secure, where never a gale
Can break your moorings,—nor even in sport
Should you weigh your anchor or spread your sail.
That tempts us into the sea of doubt;
And Satan has endless snares to spread,
If once with our reason we venture out.
Here you are in your Church like a port,
Anchored secure, where never a gale
Can break your moorings,—nor even in sport
Should you weigh your anchor or spread your sail.
So I got him back to his anchor again,
And there in the stagnant harbour he lies;
And he looks upon me with a sense of pain
As a wild freebooter; for to his eyes
Free thinking, free sailing seems to be,
A sort of a godless, dangerous thing,
Like a pirate's life on a stormy sea—
And sure at the last damnation to bring.
And there in the stagnant harbour he lies;
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As a wild freebooter; for to his eyes
Free thinking, free sailing seems to be,
A sort of a godless, dangerous thing,
Like a pirate's life on a stormy sea—
And sure at the last damnation to bring.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |