The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Blessed Saint Francis in the winter time
When half the Umbrian vales were white with snow
And all the northward vine-stems rough with rime
Walked from Perugia down. His steps were slow,
Made slow by thought; yet swift at times, for love
Showered o'er his musings, fired them from above.

Right opposite, high on Assisi's hill,
The Saint was born, child of a wealthy house;
And though corrupt delights abhorring still
The revel he had shunned, and wild carouse
Not less in camps and 'mid the festal throng
At times the youth had lived; yet not for long.

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For from the Eternal Altar in the skies
The Kingly Prophet and the Victim Priest
Standing with hands out-stretched had bent His eyes
One moment on him. Straight, from earth released,
The Saint predestined cast her lures aside
And Holy Poverty espoused—his Bride.

Love, perfect made, lives in the Loved alone;
All gifts by him unshared it spurns as dross;
He who for earth's sake left His heavenly throne
From earth accepted one sole gift—the Cross:
That day Saint Francis on that Cross and Him
Mused ever as he walked, with eyes tear-dim.

At last thus spake he to that Brother meek
For hours sole comrade of his silent way
‘Leone, lamb of Christ, the words I speak
Write down and ponder well some far-off day;
For truth remains; but men are winds that pass
Like those brief gusts that bend yon stiffening grass.

‘Leone, we, the least of men, have striven
An Order to uprear of Orders least;
If God, who ofttimes from His feast hath driven
The proud, and shared Himself the beggar's feast
Should dower that new-born Order with such grace
That one day it shall stand the first in place;

‘If in each land the Brothers Minor shone
Resplendent with a sanctity so high
That all men thronged to hear their word and none
Who heard in mortal sin was known to die,
All crowns of earth to this were but a toy;
Yet write that this would not be Perfect Joy.’

324

Another mile that road ice-filmed they trod
While sank the sun and 'gainst their faces blew
Bitterer the blast; then stood the man of God
And thus with kindling cheek began anew;
‘Leone, little lamb of Christ, attend!
Write down my words and inly apprehend.

‘Leone, if through all the earth in fear
Before the Brothers Minor demons fled;
If in all lands they caused the deaf to hear
The blind to see, and raised the buried dead
All this, though greatness proof 'gainst Time's alloy
And clear from stain, would not be Perfect Joy.’

Again pushed on the twain through vapours frore
And wayside boughs curdled with frozen rain;
But now Leone paced the Saint before
And oft his whitening fingers chafed for pain;
Again Saint Francis stood; and with a mien
As though the Vision Blest his eyes had seen

Resumed, but louder; ‘Little lamb, give ear!
Write thus, that if the Brothers Minor flung
All nets of knowledge round the spiritual sphere
And spake once more each Pentecostal tongue,
And depth on depth in Scripture hid explored,
And dragged the Soldan bound to Christ, his Lord;

‘If, lastly, through all realms they sped His Faith
Triumphant as on Angels' necks and wings
And raised in Holy Land from shame and scath
His just ones, abjects now of turbaned Kings
Potent alone to abase and to destroy,
These things, though great, would not be Perfect Joy.’

325

When three times now Leone thus had heard
From lips so loved the self-same oracle
He stood in wide-eyed wonder without word:
At last he spake; ‘I pray thee, Father, tell
What thing is Perfect Joy; how won? where found?
In heaven do Angels share it with the Crowned?’

Blessed Saint Francis raised his thin, small hand
And pointed to a chapel now not far
That lonely rose amid the dusking land
Backed by the dull red sky and evening star;
Scarce larger than a huge tree's hollow bole
That chapel seemed, their day-long journey's goal.

‘Saint Mary of the Angels’ it was named;
That Order destined soon o'er earth to spread
As yet no statelier Mother-House had claimed;
Four hermits grey from Palestine, men said,
Long centuries past those sacred walls had reared;
Though time-worn, still they stood by all revered.

Round them not yet had risen that temple graced
With countless spoils from quarry and from mine
Which clasps this hour 'mid splendours undisplaced
That precinct old, its boast, its joy, its shrine,
Delight of pilgrim bands that, year by year,
Seeking its pardoning grace in faith draw near.

Still toward that spot the Saint held forth his hand—
Ere long a cloud of mingled sleet and snow
That seemed as on it drifted to expand
Drew nearer to that humble fane and low:
It passed; and plainly in the lessening light
Shone out the chapel, now with snow-flakes white.

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Then spoke the Saint: ‘Leone, see'st thou there
Our happy home? If we who left it late
So bright, so glad, so silent, and so fair
Should cower snow-clad ere compline by its gate,
And sue admittance, crying, “Porter, wake!
Receive thy Brethren for the Master's sake!”

‘And if that porter, loth to leave his bed,
Should answer from within, “Impostors base!
Come ye to gorge the olives and the bread
Reserved for orphans and the sick? give place!
This knotted staff for backs like yours were best;
Hence! Psalms are over, and the Brethren rest:”—

‘And if, an hour gone by, once more we came
And prayed: “Great Sir, unbar to us the door;
Two Brothers Minor spent thy pity claim
Wanderers way-worn, heart-weary, and foot-sore;”
And he made answer: “Hence! for, though I sleep,
For bandits masked my wolf-hounds vigil keep:”

‘And if, two hours gone by, again we sued
And forth that porter rushed with staff and hound,
Doubtless not knowing us in his Cain-like mood,
And left us on the snows bleeding and bound,
Till now on the blank road the morning shone,
And we at heart had cherished petulance none,

‘Nor uttered contumelious word the while,
But mused all night on Christ and on His Cross,
And thanked Him that He deigned with us, though vile,
To share it, gain supreme disguised in loss,
And endless bliss won by an hour's annoy,
Leone, Brother, that were Perfect Joy.

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‘Leone! That, and every grace beside,
Is gift of God to nought man boasts akin:
Great sin it were to turn God's gifts to pride:—
This gift, slaying self-love, forestalls such sin!
Well cried the Apostle, pain-emparadised,
“Glory in this I will—the Cross of Christ.”’

The Indulgence of the Portiuncula.

University of Virginia Library