University of Virginia Library

Scene VI.—The Abbey of Pontigny.

Becket, John of Salisbury, Herbert of Bosham.
Bec.
Still, by my soul, I think he may be honest:—
The fraudulent are the weak; the king, we know,
Is strong alike in body and in mind.

John of Sal.
But not, alas! in spirit. ‘Strength to bring forth.’
The lack of faith is oftenest lack of strength,
Of spiritual strength; lack, too, of spiritual courage:
Worldlings are all too craven to believe.
This king lacks faith, and knows not that he lacks it;
At times he's superstitious; never godly:
Seeing he sees not, and in blindness thus
Tramples his good. His youth had soaring aims—

Bec.
Still unfulfilled. We must have patience with him!
God gives to man his threescore years and ten,
Then patient stands to see if in those years
His snail-paced creature makes one hour's advance.
I counted patience once man's humblest virtue;
I grow to deem of it as marvellous most
Of all God's attributes. Return to Henry!
His forefathers, like him, when wroth, were mad:
His empire's vaster far than theirs; his pride
Proportionately entempested. I think it—
I hope it, honest error.

Her.
The spirit of Bernard
Hangs on this pure and hallowed air. Your brow
Was furrowed once; to-day it wears no frown:
His Holiness did well to send you hither.

Bec.
Leisure and peace, and communings with God
Above the glebe new-turned, when fresh and sweet
Rises earth's breath, and in the thicket near
The unimpatient bird-song, evening-lulled,
Is soberer than at dawn, must help, I think,
Attuned by daily offices divine,
And faces calm wherein the chaunt lives on
When psalms are o'er—must help to soften hearts
How hard soe'er, and softening them, to brighten.
Here learn we that, except through sin of man,
There's evil none on earth—not pain, not scorn,
Not death! Were Christ her law this earth were heaven.
Lo there! How well they name this stream ‘Serene!’
Serene it wanders from the chestnut forests,
Serene it whispers through yon orchard bowers,
Serene it slides along the convent walls:
It counts the hours;—mark, as the sun descends,
How those gold lime-stems burn within its mirror
In colonnade that scorns imperial halls!
This spot is surely holier than men know;
I think some saint died here!

John of Sal.
Yet here, even here,
The battle of all ages lies before us!

Bec.
Well know I that, my friend. This eve I mused
On war, with heart at peace.

Her.
Beneath yon beech
You read a book—

Bec.
Saint Anselm's. Holy souls
This book hath holier made; for me, a sinner,
It serves a humbler part. My lot is war:
But close beside me scoffs a voice malign,
‘Thy youth vain-glorious sought the tented field
From haughty stomach or from angry spleen;
So now; for nought thou rend'st the world asunder.’
In doubt I stand: then comes to me this book,
And saith, ‘Thy cause is Anselm's: who was he?
This was no brawler, and no voice of war:
This was a soul that in the cloistral shade
Had reached the sixth fair decade of his life,
O'erstepped the threshold of the eternal Sabbath;
This was a virgin spirit, one to whom
Man's praise seemed blot and blame; an infant spirit
Whose meekness nothing earthly could perturb;
An angel spirit that, with feet on earth,
Saw still God's face in heaven—
Certes he sought no battles; yet he found them;
Long agonies of conflict in old age,
An exiled man, or fronting hostile kings.’
The tempter leaves me; and my strength returns;—
But lo, Guarine, our abbot!

John of Sal.
Slow his step:—

Bec.
I had forgotten; but I know it all:
The king has sworn, unless they drive me hence,
To war on each Cistercian house in England.
Solve we this good man's doubt.

The Abbot
(joining them).
Alas, my lord—

Bec.
My kind and generous friend, we part tomorrow!
God wills it thus, not any earthly king:
We have had our rest. It nerves us for that toil
Which summons us once more.

The Abbot.
Pavia's bishop
And Citeaux's abbot fear—

Bec.
Draw near me, friend:
The morn your predecessor left this abbey,
Lifted, reluctant, to the pastoral charge,
I at Saint Stephen's altar said my mass;
And, offering my thanksgiving there— But no!
When next at Lyons, ask my lord archbishop;
He stood behind a pillar, and heard all.
Brother, farewell. God guard this temple well!
His Spirit be its light till Christ shall come
To judge the world: and if through Satan's fraud,
The wrath of kings, the madness of the people,
It suffer wrong, may He with His own hand
Once more uplift it to a tenfold glory
Which shall not fail or fade. Once more, farewell.

[All depart, except Herbert.
Her.
(alone).
Ten talents lodged in that large honest hand
The night before his consecration morn;
And then that Bleeding Hand closed down above them;
And, last, the inquest of those Eyes divine
Cleansing his soul! Our Thomas has not hid
Those talents ten in napkin, or in earth:
Therefore the red rose of that palm nail-pierced
Grows larger daily on his own. That's well!
Peter and Paul shall press that hand in heaven.
How oft he says, ‘My youth had much to expiate.’
How few or make or will the expiation!
It comes to him in measure without stint:
His place in heaven shall be among the crowned,
Not them that break her glebe.