Poems by Julia C. R. Dorr

Friar Anselmo for a secret sin
Sat bowed with grief the convent cell within;
Nor dared, such was his shame, to lift his eyes
To the low wall whereon, in dreadful guise,
The dead Christ hung upon the cursèd tree,
Frowning, he thought, upon his misery.
What was his sin it matters not to tell.
But he was young and strong, the records say:
Perhaps he wearied of his narrow cell;
Perhaps he longed to work, as well as pray;
Perhaps his heart too warmly beat that day!
Perhaps—for life is long—the weary road
That he must travel, bearing as a load
The slow, monotonous hours that, one by one,
Dragged in a lengthening chain from sun to sun,
Appalled his eager spirit, and his vow
Pressed like an iron hand upon his brow.
Perhaps some dream of love, of home, of wife,
Had stirred this tumult in his lonely life,
Tempting his soul to barter heavenly bliss,
And sell its birthright for a woman's kiss!
At all events, the struggle had been hard;
And as a bird from the glad ether barred,
So had he beat his wings till, bruised and torn,
He wished that night he never had been born!
And still the dead Christ on the cursèd tree
Seemed but to mock his hopeless misery;

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Still Mary mother turned her eyes away,
Nor saint nor angel bent to hear him pray!
The calm, cold moonlight through the casement shone;
Weird shadows darkened on the floor of stone;
Without, what solemn splendors! and within
What fearful wrestlings with despair and sin!
Sudden and loud the cloister bell outrang;
Afar a door swung to with sullen clang;
And overhead he heard the rhythmic beat,
The measured monotone of many feet
Seeking the chapel for the midnight prayer.
Black wings seemed hovering round him in the air,
Beating him back when with a stifled moan
He would have sought the holy altar stone.
Then with a swift, sharp cry, prostrate he fell
Before the crucifix. “The gates of hell
Shall not prevail against me!” loud he cried,
Stretching his arms to Christ, the crucified.
“By Thy dread cross, Thy dying agony,
Thine awful passion, Lord, deliver me!”
Was it a dream? The taunting demons fled;
Through the dim cell a wondrous glory spread;
And all the air was filled with rare perfumes
Wafted from censers rich with heavenly blooms.
Transfigured stood the Christ before his eyes,
Clothed in white samite, woven in Paradise,
And from the empty cross upon the wall
Streamed a wide splendor that encompassed all!
Was it a dream? Anselmo's sight grew dim;
The cloistered chamber seemed to reel and swim;
Yet well his spirit knew the glorious guest,
And all his manhood rose to meet the test.
“What wilt Thou have me, Lord, to do?” he cried
With pallid lips, and kissed the sacred feet.

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And then in accents strangely calm, yet sweet,
These words he heard from Christ, the crucified,
The pitying Christ his inmost soul who read,
With all its wild unrest, its doubt and dread:
“Make thou a copy of My Holy Word!”
Then mystic presences about him stirred;
The vision faded. At the dawn of day
Prostrate and pallid in the dusk he lay.
Was it a dream? God knows! The narrow cell
Wore the old aspect he had learned so well,
And from the crucifix upon the wall
No glory streamed illuminating all!
Yet still a subtile fragrance filled the room;
And looking round him in the soft, gray gloom,
Anselmo saw upon the fretted floor
An eagle's quill that this grave legend bore:
“He works most nobly for his fellow-men
Who gives My word to them, by tongue or pen!”

Henceforth Anselmo prayed, but worked as well,
Nor felt the bondage of his cloister cell;
For all his soul was filled with high intent,
He had no dream since its accomplishment—
To make a copy of the Holy Word,
Fairer than eye had seen, or ear had heard,
Or heart conceived of! Day by day he wrought,
His fingers guided by a single thought;
Forming each letter with the tenderest care,
With points of richest color here and there;
With birds on swaying boughs, and butterflies
Poised on gay wings o'er sprays of eglantine;
With tangled tracery of flower and vine
Through which gleamed cherub faces, half divine;
With fading leaves that drift when summer dies,
And angels floating down the evening skies—

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Each word an orison, each line a prayer!
Slowly the work went on from day to day;
The seasons came and went; May followed May;
Year after year passed by with stately tread
To join the countless legions of the dead,
Till Fra Anselmo, wan and bowed with age,
Bent, a gray monk, above the parchment page.
Death waited till he wrote the last fair line,
Then touched his hand and closed the Book Divine!

The world has grown apace since then.
He who would give God's word to men,
In cloistered cell, o'er parchment page,
No longer bends from youth to age.
Countless as leaves by autumn strewn
The leaves of His great Book are blown
Over the earth as wide and far
As seeds by wandering breezes are!
Yet none the less He speaks to-day
As to Anselmo in his cell;
Bidding men speed upon their way
His later messages as well.
For not alone in Holy Book,
In revelations dim and old,
In sweetest stories simply told,
In grand, prophetic strains that reach
The loftiest heights of human speech,
In martial hymn, or saintly psalm,
In fiery threat, or logic calm,
God's messages are writ to-day—
And He whose voice Mount Sinai shook
Still bids men hearken and obey!
He writes His name upon the hills;
He whispers in the mountain rills;

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He speaks through every flower that blows,
In breath of lily, tint of rose;
In sultry calms; in furious beat
Of the wild storm's tempestuous feet;
In starlit night, and dewy morn,
And splendor of the day new-born!
He uttereth His thunders where
The shock of battle rends the air;
He guides the fiery steeds of War;
He rules unseen the maddening jar,
The hate and din of party strife,
And bids it serve the nation's life;
He leads fair Science, where she walks
With stately tread among the stars,
Or where, with reverent voice, she talks
With Nature through the eternal bars!
His Word is uttered wheresoe'er
A human soul has ears to hear.
The royal message never errs;
God send it true interpreters!

University of Virginia Library

FRIAR ANSELMO