In Cornwall and Across the Sea With Poems Written in Devonshire. By Douglas B. W. Sladen |
 |
| I. |
 |
|
THE CISTERCIANS. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | In Cornwall and Across the Sea |  |
94
THE CISTERCIANS.
“Behold, bless ye the Lord, all ye servants of the Lord,”
Said the hoary-headed prior to the fair-haired chorister,
And rose the child's pure treble as his little heart out-poured
At matins and at even-song his praise in accents clear.
Said the hoary-headed prior to the fair-haired chorister,
And rose the child's pure treble as his little heart out-poured
At matins and at even-song his praise in accents clear.
“Oh, ye that stand by night in the presence of the Lord,”
The hoary-headed prior's hand its task had finished now,
Was echoed to the chorister become a monk, who poured
His praise in dulcet tenor as he took the sacred vow.
The hoary-headed prior's hand its task had finished now,
Was echoed to the chorister become a monk, who poured
His praise in dulcet tenor as he took the sacred vow.
95
O ye that in his courts do the service of our God,
“In the sanctuary lift your hands and bless his holy name,”
Sang the brother night and morning, as his holy path he trod,
Unceasing in his song of praise, and prior he became.
“In the sanctuary lift your hands and bless his holy name,”
Sang the brother night and morning, as his holy path he trod,
Unceasing in his song of praise, and prior he became.
Bless ye, and may “the Lord that the earth and heaven made
Give you blessing out of Zion,” in his accents shrill and thin
The chorister, long prior now and hoary-headed, said
To another sweet boy chorister but lately entered in.
Give you blessing out of Zion,” in his accents shrill and thin
The chorister, long prior now and hoary-headed, said
To another sweet boy chorister but lately entered in.
To the fair Cistercian abbey by the stately river side
For many generations had the sweet-voiced boys been brought,
And first as choristers, then monks, had gently lived and died
In the perfect peace of God, since then elsewhere so vainly sought.
For many generations had the sweet-voiced boys been brought,
And first as choristers, then monks, had gently lived and died
In the perfect peace of God, since then elsewhere so vainly sought.
96
Their life was in their abbey locked, the stirring world beyond
With its passions for fair women and its furious clash of steel,
With its riot in high places and its curse and blow and bond
For poor folk trampled down beneath oppression's iron heel,
With its passions for fair women and its furious clash of steel,
With its riot in high places and its curse and blow and bond
For poor folk trampled down beneath oppression's iron heel,
Was dead to them: 'twas not for hire or fame that all day long
They wrought and laid the stones so well which made their fabric rise
So glorious a temple for their morn and even-song,
With tower and spire and pinnacle all pointing to the skies.
They wrought and laid the stones so well which made their fabric rise
So glorious a temple for their morn and even-song,
With tower and spire and pinnacle all pointing to the skies.
Their abbeys were not built; they grew beneath the brothers' hand
Till stones would bear no further touch they touched no other block,
Like coral insects slow they worked, and like a coral strand
Their work was perfect in its parts and solid as the rock.
Till stones would bear no further touch they touched no other block,
Like coral insects slow they worked, and like a coral strand
Their work was perfect in its parts and solid as the rock.
97
Twas not an age of architects who struggled to create
But one of building bees who worked harmonious for a whole
With one idea running through so obvious and great
That master's eyes were needed not to guide them to their goal.
But one of building bees who worked harmonious for a whole
With one idea running through so obvious and great
That master's eyes were needed not to guide them to their goal.
The secret of the olden times which made the work they wrought
Like Nature's master-pieces stand the test of time and change,
Was that not fame or pay for work but perfect work they sought,
And knew perfection was a growth and not a product strange.—
Like Nature's master-pieces stand the test of time and change,
Was that not fame or pay for work but perfect work they sought,
And knew perfection was a growth and not a product strange.—
Those frescoes with their humanness were Brother Clement's life;
John to that missal's glowing page two scores of winters gave;
That statue had for Brother Paul the graces of a wife;
Two centuries of brothers wrought before they roofed the nave.
John to that missal's glowing page two scores of winters gave;
That statue had for Brother Paul the graces of a wife;
Two centuries of brothers wrought before they roofed the nave.
98
How shall we rear a work of art in our degenerate day,
A day when very plants are forced their products to forestall,
A day when seasonable growth is looked on as delay,
When architects scarce care for art and reckon labour all.
A day when very plants are forced their products to forestall,
A day when seasonable growth is looked on as delay,
When architects scarce care for art and reckon labour all.
Just here and there an artist toils in the old-fashioned style,
Throwing his life into his task and throwing it in vain,
Only by merest chance his work will win the public smile,
And with it may be future fame through little present gain.
Throwing his life into his task and throwing it in vain,
Only by merest chance his work will win the public smile,
And with it may be future fame through little present gain.
'Tis not that in these latter times the sum of art is less;
We may not have the patient art to build a Gothic fane;
But art is growing where was once a howling wilderness,
And even artizans can now its humbler flowers attain.
We may not have the patient art to build a Gothic fane;
But art is growing where was once a howling wilderness,
And even artizans can now its humbler flowers attain.
99
And poets make this overflow of art their joyous text,
Although they mourn the mighty men, the simple antique folk,
Who laid each stone and limned each page, as if there were no next,
And sowed their acorn quite content that it would be an oak.
Although they mourn the mighty men, the simple antique folk,
Who laid each stone and limned each page, as if there were no next,
And sowed their acorn quite content that it would be an oak.
| In Cornwall and Across the Sea | |