Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall :: :: University of Virginia Library

In a valley encircled by endless wood
Silent and sombre a convent stood;
In front a garden; beyond the pale
The forest spread over hill and dale,
And its paths were seldom trod.

One summer evening of ages gone
A grey monk worked in the garden alone
Heavily turning the deep clay soil;
And his breath came hard with the straining toil
As he prayed aloud to God;

“Alas,” cried he, “for the path is steep
“And the goal is far and the slow hours creep;

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“When shall I finish the tale of my years
“Of days in silence and nights in tears
“And come to my promised rest?”

He lifted his face to the comforting sky,
And he saw where sat in a tree hard by
A bird whose plumes like the rainbow shone,
It sang three notes with a silvery tone;
And as if to a new-built nest

Over the garden he saw it flit
Into the forest; and there it lit;
Again in the leaves its song he heard,
He was fain to follow the beautiful bird,
And he entered the woodland maze;

The bird flew slowly from bough to bough
Up the valley side to the low hill's brow;
From the spreading beech on the mossy bank

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To the willow weeping o'er marsh pools dank;
He could but follow and gaze.

Ever it fluttered above his head,
Ever he looked and was lingering led
Through grassy glades and tangled woods
Deep into shady solitudes
Of many a fern clad hollow.

For he thought that a bird so rich and rare
Never had floated on summer air,
He could not lose it, he needs must roam
It seemed to beckon and bid him come,
He could not choose but follow.

At last on a wych elm, gnarled and grey,
As the monk drew nearer, it seemed to stay
Then spread its wings for a sudden flight
Over the tree-tops, out of his sight;
And he turned back drearily.

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He reached his garden in twilight dim,
The trees looked gaunt and the convent grim,
He rang at the gate as vesper tolled
And the porter opened it, blind and old,
And he entered wearily.

But the hall had suffered a secret change;
With unknown faces and accent strange
The monks rose up as they heard his name,
They asked his errand and whence he came;
And he told them his tale forlorn.

Some counted their beads, one muttered a prayer,
He knew not why they should gather and stare,
He stood in the midst like one distraught,
And the friendly voices in vain he sought
Of the freres he had left that morn.

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At last came the Abbot, aged and bent;
He scanned his features with eyes intent;
And he cried, “Be it he or his wandering ghost
“'Tis the face of the monk in the forest lost
“Some forty summers agone!

“Is he roaming still, though the mass was said
“And the requiem sung for a brother dead?
“Does he dream he has rambled this livelong day?
“'Tis two score years since he vanished away”—
But the monk gave answer none,

Save only he said, “Have I journeyed so long?
“Welcome at last is the evensong;
“Let me take the sleep I have earned so well”—

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And he died that night in his ancient cell,
And the brethren closed his eyes.

So his prayer was granted; from youth to age
God shortened the term of his pilgrimage;
The sad years passed like a day's sunlight,
And the sweet-voiced bird with the plumage bright
Was a Bird of Paradise.