Feda with Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I, Prosper, from my hermit's solitude,
God's witness in this mountain,—I the least
Of all who seek salvation, as God knows,
Yet labouring somewhat for my fellows here
To his more glory, as a sinner may,
And trusting in the Merciful, Amen!
The hermit, Prosper, who am known to all
The dwellers in yon valleys, and what folk
Fare through these passes, pilgrims marching south,
And merchant trains and all who make for Rome,
Write down these words and lie not;—what befell
Here in this mountain, since the day He died,
The Merciful, eight hundred years and ten,
The eve of Easter as it drew to dawn,
To God's great glory;—what I know I tell.

Wild as its wont was winter in these crags,
Without this wall the snows were drifted high—

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The wind's way through yon gully; but within,
Brave pine-logs blazed, for I have never lack,
So pilgrims pay their shelter, laying by
My winter store against the lonely days.
Weeks then and weeks had no soul fared this way;
The drifts lay round too deeply; and I thought,
How am I lonely in the hills with God
To keep my vigil on this Easter-eve!
But brief, ye know my life, sirs, and my vow.

It may be I had nodded at my beads,
But I was wide awake then,—see this page—
This is the copy that I made myself,
A winter's labour, written word for word,—
This page is doubled where I read that night
In John, in the twelfth chapter, where He saith,
“An any hear me and believe me not,
“I do not judge him,”—when the fire blazed high,
And as a sudden blast whirled by without,
The raw wind gusted in; thereat I turned,
And on you threshold of the door beheld
The form of one so old and woe-begone,
So shrivelled, wrinkled, starved and shrunk and pale,

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I shuddered back as one who stares at death;—
So crossed myself, and as I moved his eyes
Piercing the shadow found the crucifix
Which stands to face for reverence entering;—
There shot a scared look o'er his caverned brows,
A shiver rattled all his bony limbs,
And such a hollow whisper hissed, “Away!
“Thou art a holy man, away, away!
“Thou canst not shrive me, curse me from thy door!”
But while he struggled with the latch there broke
A clap like thunder, what I knew not then,
Only the door was barred without, and he
Fell down and cowered on the stony floor.

Dear God! a man, and all his throat and breast
Was bare and bitten by the searing wind,
The rime was frozen on his thin white hair,
And on such shreds of raiment as yet clung
To limbs so withered you had hardly deemed
Such fleshless skin could cling about the bone.
His hanks of beard were matted with the frost,
And icicled about his sunken lips,
Only the ghastly glitter of his eyes

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Smote keen and quickly from the living soul,
And still he muttered as he shrank away,
“How long, Unmerciful! How long! Away!
“Thou canst not shrive me, and I may not die!”

Then I, because I thought the man was faint
And weak with fasting, brought him bread and wine,
The wine they send me ever year by year,
For care of storm-lost brethren—set them by,
But he would none of it, he only groaned,
“The first who did not curse me!” shrinking back,
“The first who pitied, and he damns me worst.”

Then cried I, “Brother, whosoe'er thou art,
“Peace be upon thee in the Father's name,
“Peace in the Son's”—“Peace!” shrilled he back again,
“Blast not thy lips by bidding peace to me!
“Take back thy blessing, wait and hear my tale!'

“Hast heard of one shut out from death and hell,
“Damned to eternal wandering on earth,
“The stricken spirit of a living curse,
“The Jew, Ahasuerus? I am he!

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“The last pollution of a leper race
“That feuded nations grow akin to hate!
“Hast heard of one that in the cross-way stood,
“And spat his mocking in the face of God?
“Curse me, and let me go, and no word more!
“He triumphed, I am judged,—say, God is good!”

Then, as I took his withered hand in mine,
And lifted up the fallen head, I saw
A shade of wonder seem to soften down
The fire of those indomitable eyes.

“The first who did not curse me! Dost thou deem
“I am some crazed unhappy wandering soul?
“What human life could live among these snows?
‘But I, the accursed, in my living death
“Endure and suffer, live and wander on.—
“I walk the desert and the solitude
“Of mountain ranges, where no foot-tracks are;
“Oft have I flung me from the wall of rock
“And lighted scatheless, seeking death; I think,
“One gives the devil charge to bear me up:
“No sea will hide me, but I walk the waves;

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“I am omnipotent except to die.
“By fields of slaughter and through plague-struck towns
“I pass, and look for ease in watching pain,
“And covet death that only takes not me.
“I have no count of years, I have outlived
“Men, empires, thoughts,—these pass, I heed them not,
“With my sole thought for ever I endure.
“Sleep has not ever closed these eyes of mine,
“I know no thirst nor hunger, only this,
“To be whirled on in impotence of pain
“From dawn to dark eternal, dark to dawn,
“Outside of pity and beyond remorse,
“A plague-spot and pollution, one to scare
“All innocent eyes,—I cannot look on joy,
“But I must blast it with a look of hate,
“And I have never heard one gentle word
“From child or woman, hounded on and on,
“The scapegoat of all mocking eyes on earth;
“The curse is on me by the doom of God.”

Then, sirs, I rose, stung into speech at last,
And bade the devil, if such were in him,

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Come forth and leave the human soul to peace,
And all the while he cowered on the ground.
“He does not curse me,” muttered, and went on:
“Forbear thy pity, lest thou too be damned!
“Just God! Aye, very merciful and just!
“Were there no others mocking there but I?
“I had their silver, and I shouted loud
“With those who crucified: mercy and love
“They were not in our law,—and all you preach.
“We looked to find a prophet, and He came
“In humble raiment, with a crazy crew
“Of fisher-folk from Galilee!—Peace, peace, I know
“His triumph and my judgment by my doom.
“I had their money, and the Roman hound
“Had bowed to our tradition,—then it was
“His very Galileans turned and fled,—
“Peace, hear me through! I followed with the throng
“Howling and hooting. He was half dead then,
“Long hours of watching, left alone to die,
“Tortured the night through and condemned at dawn—
“The very stones were bleeding where He trod,
“And down His brows the black blood ran and dried,

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“They pressed the thorns so deep into the flesh,
“He could not bear the heavy cross, He fell,—
“A King, we cried, will no one raise the King?
“A King, a Saviour, let Him raise Himself!
“And as He fell upon the bleeding stones,
“I laughed and mocked and spat in His white face!
“Away from me, away!—I saw His eyes,—
“The curse was on me as my mocking died.
“There struck a frozen horror to my heart,
“And, as I turned, I heard behind, beyond,
“The chorus of all angels in the height,
“Singing the triumph of the death of God.”

“Nay, hear me yet,—I followed with the throng.
“These eyes that look into your eyes beheld
“Your cross reared high against the dark black heaven,
“A moment since so cloudless,—blue with spring,—
“I heard the words you cling to in your need
“Wafted across the still before the storm:
“I saw it all, the cry that came at last,
“‘'Tis finished,’—there is naught you do not know:

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“Then the earth reeled around us, and the wind
“Howled from the wilderness, then wailed the crowd,
“Turned, scattered, fled,—Jew, Roman, Gentile, Priest!
“And ever against the flashing skies the cross
“Stood fixed, enduring,—as there! there! And I—
“My eyes were blinded-God, unmerciful!
“Were there no others mocked but I?—the hills
“Shook and the graves were rended, and the dust
“Darkened the whirlwind, as we fled, we fled.
“And ever and ever in these eyes of mine,
“In light in dark for ever burns that cross!
“Rings back my mocking on these ancient ears!
“And those, those eyes that curse me through the thorns!”

You know me, sirs, a man of simple mind,
Not very lettered, but a ready tongue,
To speak the word God whispers, His the praise!
I did not fail for reason then I think,
Not I, but that which through me answered back
The word of hope and faith and truth and life.

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I cried, “The curse is only in thy heart,
“The living madness of a long remorse
“That drives thee on, as once the living hope
“Bore the divine in Patmos up through time,
“Until God took him ere the fire was quenched:
“He could not curse, He curse! the Merciful!”

I told him Hate and Love dwell not in one,
As fire and water mutually repel,
Vengeance and Mercy have an alien end,
If God be God, good must proceed of God!
Therefore, He could not curse, the Merciful.
And all this while he cowered at my feet,
Crept but a little nearer as I spoke,
“He does not curse me” muttered, and was still.

But something in me whispered, lo, the time,
The place of his redemption! God is pleased
To work this wonder by thy hand: Arise,
Nerve all thy soul to effort, trust to God
To give the word thou needest now, Amen.

Then, sirs, I wrestled with that lonely soul,
I cannot tell my story word for word,

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For some voice stronger than my voice spake then,—
And night went by and he lay at my feet,
And stared for ever on that crucifix,
Rocked to and fro, and moaned and murmured oft,
“He could not curse, not curse,—the Merciful!”

“Sayst thou, He could not curse—but see this flesh,
“This driven wraith of life!—He could not curse,
“But is He not Almighty, and I live?”

“Oh, half convinced against thy will,” I cried,
“Yet steeled to bar the knocking hope away,
“If love were only frozen in thine heart,
“And hate the ice that binds its hidden spring,
“If this thy doom were mercy after all,
“Thy long atonement to redeem thy sin,
“If even now the smitten lips that breathed
“The word of mercy on the mocking crowd
“Were waiting, smiling, at the Gate of Heaven,
“If even now the wounded hands reached forth
“To take thine hand and guide the faltering feet,
“If love be love, and mercy be with God,

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“Then wilt thou mock at love a second time,
“Be thine own curse for ever?”—Hark, he calls!

Then, as it were a mask of ice that thaws
When the rock-spring grows conscious of May sun,
His stony face grew softer, lips relaxed,—
I cried:

“Uncurse thyself, and thou art free!
“This is the dark before the dawn, and I
“Stand here His witness, as of old Himself
“Spake on the mountain, ‘Come ye unto Me
“‘All ye that labour.’ Lo, He bids me now
“Lift thee and love thee, thee He died to help,
“Thou canst not choose but love Him! Rise and pray!”

Hereat it seemed as though a mist had dimmed
The fire that gleamed beneath his caverned brows,
And through the wrinkles of his thin sunk lips
There wreathed the ghostly semblance of a smile,
And once again, but very faintly now,
“He could not curse, the Merciful!”—he sighed,
Smiled outright now, and smiling so fell back

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With stedfast eyes upon the crucifix,
And when I knelt to lift him he was dead,
While through the casement grew the Easter dawn.

There, sirs, you have my story, word for word
I may not tell it,—for I spoke not then,
But something through me, greater than my voice.
I found with daybreak how a drift of snow
Blown up the lintel barred the door without.
What say you, sirs? It is an olden tale,
The wandering sinner's, and if God were pleased
To show the world such miracle of doom,
Such great atonement, and to work through me
The marvel of His mercy at the end,
Judge ye! I have my verdict, God's the praise!

He lies there where on that red Easter dawn
I laid him, for the snows began to yield,
And all the spring months after fell no more;
The winds blew softly on the early year,
And in the growing days I hewed that cross
In the rock's surface to abide, and be
My witness to the world and his.
Ye have my story, what I know I tell.