The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

The morrow came; and, when the sun was high,
Beneath a silken awning rosy-hued
Sat Barbara, smiling on her happy court;
The Graces near her, Midas at her side,
And all the Sciences and all the Arts,
In decent black or motley summer suits,
Gathered around her; modern Muses too,
From Sappho Syntax in her spectacles
To Jennie Homespun, Clapham's idyllist,
Called ‘Wordsworth's daughter’ by the small reviews.
Nor lacked we grace of stately company
From lands beyond the thunders of the Chimes
Which turn the small beer of the Senate sour:
Dan Paumanok, the Yankee pantheist,
Hot gospeller of Nature and the flesh,
Who, holding soul but body purified,
Vaunted the perfect body fifty years,
Then sank beneath a sunstroke paralyzed,
A wreck in all save that serener soul
Outlooking from his grave and patient eyes.
There sat he, in his chair, a craggy form,
Snow-bearded, patriarchal, wearing well
His crown of kindly sorrow. Close to him,
Miranda Jones, the lyric poetess,
Lean and æsthetic to the finger-tips,
Crouched like a pythoness with lissome limbs,
Pale eyes that swam with sybilline desire,
And vagrant locks of amber.

To this last
Queen Barbara turn'd, and smiling royally cried:
‘Barbara to Miranda! Take the harp,
And sound the prelude that befits our theme.’
Whereon the other, starting from a trance,
Answered, ‘You spoke? My soul was far away!
And watching that old Faun whose stony eyes
Have seen a hundred summers come and go,
Methought he changed, and on his naked back
Had drawn a cassock, on his head a cowl,
And so, transformed into a very monk,
Moaned answer to his comrades, turn'd to daws
There in the Priory, cawing high in the air
Their pax vobiscum!’

With a laugh then cried
Douglas the scoffer, puffing his cigar—
‘The dream was apt, Miranda! Strip the monk
In new tunes as in old, you find beneath
The satyr's skin; beneath the black rogue's cowl,
The satry's swinish leer.’ But scornfully
Tossing her python ringlets, she replied—
‘The monks were men, and in their holy hearts,
And in their weary eyes, though filled with dust,
The elemental pagan lingered still.
I read a tale once in a dusty book
Bought at a bookstall in a dusty street
At Florence—how, long centuries ago,
When all the world was gray because of Christ,
A sudden glory of the buried world
Flashed from the tomb, as Cytherea rose
From darkness of the weary and rainy sea;
And how a monk (no satyr, but a soul
Pure as this sapphire on my finger, sir!),
Having with eyes of wonder seen the sight,
Died of its rapture. Have you heard the tale?
I put it into rhymes which Sweetsong praised
One week I was his guest at Sunbury.'

‘Give us the tale!’ we cried, and at a nod
From Barbara, our queen and arbitress,
Miranda shook her locks and thus began:—