 | The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan |  |
RAMON MONAT.
1
Hidden from the light of day,All his care to plead and pray,
In his cell sat Ramon Monat,
Gaunt and grey.
2
Suddenly before his sightStood the Virgin robed in white,—
In her arms fresh-gather'd roses
Red and bright.
3
‘Ramon, Ramon,’ murmur'd she,‘See the gifts I bring to thee,
Roses, red celestial roses,
Pluck'd by me!
32
4
‘Walking in His gardens fair,'Midst the golden glory there,
My sweet Son, the Lord Christ Jesus,
Hears thy prayer!
5
‘Lo, He sendeth thee to-dayThese blest flowers from far away!’ . . .
Wildly sobbing, Ramon Monat
Answer'd ‘Nay!
6
'Holy Mother, on thy breastLet the flowers of rapture rest,—
Not for me—I am not worthy—
Gifts so blest!
7
'Ah, but if my brows might gain(Hear me, though the prayer is vain),
For a moment's space, my Master's
Crown of pain!’
8
From his sight the Virgin fairVanish'd, as he sank in prayer;
Presently, again he saw her,
Standing there!
9
Weeping bitterly she said,‘See, the gift I bring instead—
Lo, the cruel crown of sorrow,
Bloody-red!’
10
When the Virgin Mother mild,Weeping like a little child,
Set the thorns on Ramon's forehead,
Ramon smiled!
11
Lonely there for many a day,Rack'd with anguish, gaunt and grey,
Happy with that crown of sorrow,
Ramon lay.
12
Then, when 'twas his Master's will,There they found him dead and chill,
Sweetly, in his crown of sorrow,
Smiling still!
‘The lunatic, the anchorite, and the poet
Are of rank superstition all compact,’
Cried Douglas, lifting high his cap and bells;
‘Your Ramon Monat wore his crown of thorns
Upon his pallid brow as jauntily
As Cæsar throws the purple round his limbs.
Such creatures on the body of Mother Church
Crawl'd thickly, till good Doctor Rational,
Call'd when the lady's state was perilous,
Said, “Wash thyself—be clean, take exercise!”
And so the vermin died. He serves God best
Who loves his kind, and teaches them to rinse
Both soul and body, until both appear
As clean—as a sheep's heart!’
Are of rank superstition all compact,’
Cried Douglas, lifting high his cap and bells;
‘Your Ramon Monat wore his crown of thorns
Upon his pallid brow as jauntily
As Cæsar throws the purple round his limbs.
Such creatures on the body of Mother Church
Crawl'd thickly, till good Doctor Rational,
Call'd when the lady's state was perilous,
Said, “Wash thyself—be clean, take exercise!”
And so the vermin died. He serves God best
Who loves his kind, and teaches them to rinse
Both soul and body, until both appear
As clean—as a sheep's heart!’
A speech so bold
Jarr'd with the gentle temper of the hour,
The peaceful woods, the summer afternoon,
The dreamy spirit of that sylvan scene.
‘Peace, knave!’ cried Barbara mock-seriously,
‘Moments there are when even cap and bells
Must lose their privilege, and fools be dumb
For fear of stripes!’—and to him on the grass
She tossed a bunch of grapes, which Douglas caught
And munch'd in silence, lying on his back.
Then came a pause, so deep that we could hear
The breathing of the silence, the soft stir
Of birds among the boughs, the waterfall
Crooning itself to sleep within the woods.
Jarr'd with the gentle temper of the hour,
The peaceful woods, the summer afternoon,
The dreamy spirit of that sylvan scene.
‘Peace, knave!’ cried Barbara mock-seriously,
‘Moments there are when even cap and bells
Must lose their privilege, and fools be dumb
For fear of stripes!’—and to him on the grass
She tossed a bunch of grapes, which Douglas caught
And munch'd in silence, lying on his back.
Then came a pause, so deep that we could hear
The breathing of the silence, the soft stir
Of birds among the boughs, the waterfall
Crooning itself to sleep within the woods.
Quoth Bishop Primrose: ‘Your ascetics shrank
Sense after sense, until their very souls
Became as mere Narcissi, pondering
Their own reflections, figuring in their pride
A moral catalepsy, death not life.
He serves God best who launches fearlessly
Out on the living waters, and proclaiming
The great celestial haven, leads the way
With all sails set, that the poor storm-toss'd fleet
Of Humankind may follow fearlessly!
Ev'n so the preachers of our Church have done,
Spreading glad tidings up and down the world,
And working out salvation for themselves
Through the redemption of the human race!’
Sense after sense, until their very souls
Became as mere Narcissi, pondering
Their own reflections, figuring in their pride
A moral catalepsy, death not life.
He serves God best who launches fearlessly
Out on the living waters, and proclaiming
The great celestial haven, leads the way
With all sails set, that the poor storm-toss'd fleet
Of Humankind may follow fearlessly!
Ev'n so the preachers of our Church have done,
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And working out salvation for themselves
Through the redemption of the human race!’
‘Alas!’ another speaker interposed,
‘The Storm is loud for ever on the seas,
And while the proud strong Churches of the creeds
Sail to and fro with golden argosies,
Each night a fleet of fishing-boats goes down
And no man heeds! Science is tenderer;
She puts a beacon on each rocky cape,
And sounds the shallows, that poor mariners
May know the seas their ships must navigate.
Meantime the tumult of Euroclydon
Roars on the Deep; and mark! the tempest blows
Not to but from the far-off Heavenly Land,
Beating the vessels back on dusky shores
To shipwreck close at home. I'd rather trust
The roughest pilot born upon the coast,
Familiar with the dangers round about,
Than any of your Priests who shut their eyes
And wring their hands and pray! This world of ours
Is at the mercy of the elements;
Who tries to weigh them? Science does her best,
While poor Religion quakes, and conjures up
More spectres than the storm itself can breed.’
He added: ‘Just the other day in church,
Drifted there Heaven knows how and Heaven knows why,
I heard the preacher preach, and dreamed a dream;
If you will have it, here it is in verse,
Rude as the maker, rugged as the theme,’—
And no one interposing, he began.
‘The Storm is loud for ever on the seas,
And while the proud strong Churches of the creeds
Sail to and fro with golden argosies,
Each night a fleet of fishing-boats goes down
And no man heeds! Science is tenderer;
She puts a beacon on each rocky cape,
And sounds the shallows, that poor mariners
May know the seas their ships must navigate.
Meantime the tumult of Euroclydon
Roars on the Deep; and mark! the tempest blows
Not to but from the far-off Heavenly Land,
Beating the vessels back on dusky shores
To shipwreck close at home. I'd rather trust
The roughest pilot born upon the coast,
Familiar with the dangers round about,
Than any of your Priests who shut their eyes
And wring their hands and pray! This world of ours
Is at the mercy of the elements;
Who tries to weigh them? Science does her best,
While poor Religion quakes, and conjures up
More spectres than the storm itself can breed.’
He added: ‘Just the other day in church,
Drifted there Heaven knows how and Heaven knows why,
I heard the preacher preach, and dreamed a dream;
If you will have it, here it is in verse,
Rude as the maker, rugged as the theme,’—
And no one interposing, he began.
| The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan | |