Scene III.—A wood close to the Abbey of St. Colombe, near Sens.
Herbert of Bosham, alone.
Her.
Since Nature, God's fair daughter, wreathes at times
The Church's fillet o'er her laughing eyes,
And, masked in livery of her graver sister,
Like her would teach us—learn we of her lore!
What means this flower? Men call it Columbine;
A tassel-toy. Yet, pluck, save one, its purples,
And lo, that remnant left puts on the dove!
Blossom to bird is changed! The meaning's plain:
Weed out your joys; cast off redundancies:
Deflower the pomps and shows of secular life;
Then at their core you reach the wingèd greatness!
The passion-flower itself—
John of Sal.
(arriving).
Hail, ancient friend!
Her.
Far-travelled seer, welcome from all the lands!
How speak they of our primate?
John of Sal.
Much, and ill:
The magnates of the State fear and dislike him;
The magnates of the Church admire yet fear;
With instinct from above the poor are with him.
Her.
'Tis ever thus! In Castle Rockingham,
When like a stag at bay old Anselm stood
The Red King glaring at him in lust of blood,
What help was his from prelate or from peer?
The council-hall was as a captured city:
The bishops hung their heads. Then from the crowd
An old grey man stepped forth, and knelt, and said,
‘Father, thy children bid thee have no fear:
The poor man's prayer is strong!’
John of Sal.
Not slacker of help
Pope Urban was to Anselm than, this hour,
His successor to Thomas. Herbert, Herbert!
The Church errs never; but her rulers err:
They lack the earth-wisdom of the secular lords.
Her.
The errors of the rulers of the Church
At times more serve her than their happiest prudence.
'Tis true they cause her trials:—what of that?
God sends her strength proportioned to those trials,
And makes her feel that strength is His alone.
Statesmen do penance here on earth for errors;—
A later, sterner Court shall judge their sins:
The Church wears sackcloth here on earth for sins;
The sinless error hurts her not: it breeds
Her pains of growth—no more.
John of Sal.
That slowness frets me!
Her.
Her slowness means her greatness. Statesmen play
Still the short game, because their time is short,
She that endures, the long one. 'Tis her nature,
Her nature, and God's law, not her design:
She cannot mass her total force in front:
Too manifold is it, and too deeply hidden;
Reserves she hath. Some tyrant's luckless craft
Forth drags them; and, his victory all but won,
He finds his war beginning; near life's end
Finds it once more beginning.
John of Sal.
Henry's craft
Deceives no more. Faith gravitates t'ward Becket;
But men of faith grow rarer.
Her.
God, O God!
How diverse showed those twain when first they warred,
And how that first diversity hath grown
With fleeting of the years! At Montmirail
That truth o'ershone me like a lightning flash!
Not then, as at Northampton, Becket towered
A terror to his foes. By all forsaken
He made no boast of self. In patient sadness
With neck a little bent and forward head,
Six hours he stood beneath that scourge of tongues:
He spake but this; ‘I swear to serve my king,
Saving the honour of the King of kings:
Who swears to more is Pagan and a slave.’
I saw that God had sent his soul that hour
A soul's supremest trial—Dereliction:
The fountains of the mighty deep of woe
Were broken up: the joy of Faith was dead:
Yet Faith itself lived on. 'Mid storm and darkness
He clung to God as limpet to the rock;—
He's greater than he was: the grace of Orders
Makes increase in his spirit.
John of Sal.
It were time
He sued the Pope once more.
Her.
He never sues him,
Though loyalest of his sons. He trusts in God
And broods not much on counsels for the future.
When late I spake of such, he smiled and said
‘There was an hour beside Saint Denys' tomb:
'Twas then you deemed our fortunes touched their highest:
It is not, friend, from thrones of kings or popes
Issues man's hope, but from the martyr's grave.’
John of Sal.
Herbert, the fault is yours—your fault—your folly!
One day you'll wreck us. Yes, the fault is yours!
Should Thomas catch from you—
Her.
No word from me
Hath Thomas heard to fire the martyr's zeal.
John of Sal.
Ever you praise man's life; yet ever muse
How, innocently, man may soonest leave it:
All which the juncture needeth you ignore.
Herbert, see that which is !—you gaze for aye
On pictures in the air.
Her.
Which they see not
Who, dazzled, watch that merriest house on fire
A world in dotage hastening to its doom.
John of Sal.
Am I a worldling?
Her.
Nay, but half, good John;
Worldling with heavenward aim.
John of Sal.
Herbert, you know
As little of the world as of the flesh—
Of each not more, I ween, than of the Devil:
Let the world be.
Her.
Things are there he knows best
Who knows them only slightly, and at distance.
Well, well, the world is fair—this day at least;—
Ay, and the life of man is worth the living!
So deem that bannered choir of youths and maids:
O how the heart springs forth on wings to meet them!
Glad hearts sing there! And yet they'll only learn
In heaven how fair a thing was earthly life!
Peasants
(pass near singing).
Hark, the Spring! She calls!
With a thousand voices
'Mid the echoing forest-halls
One great heart rejoices!
Hills where young lambs bound
Whiten o'er with daisies:
Flag-flowers light the lower ground
Where the old steer grazes.
Meadows laugh, flower-gay;
Every breeze that passes
Waves the seed-cloud's gleaming grey
O'er the greener grasses.
O thou Spring! be strong,
Exquisite new-comer!
And the onset baffle long
Of advancing Summer!
John of Sal.
Herbert, farewell! Within I seek the primate:
New treasons rise, which to forestall, the Pope
Sends mandates to my Lords of York and London:
The Swearer saw him late—that means a storm.
[John of Salisbury departs.
Her.
(alone).
John has great virtues—not the chief, like Becket's,
Since worldly men can understand them half—
Yet great ones since they take no stain from praise.
How kind is Providence! To one like me,
Strengthless, a Christian fabler more than Christian,
Flatteries of men, reverence from hostile kings,
And all the sleek lubricities of Fortune,
Had proved a flower-decked pitfall. For that cause
Such things pass by our sort.
