The Prophecy of Westminster, And other Poems In Honour of Henry Edward, Cardinal Manning. By Harriet Eleanor Hamilton King |
 |
Procession of the League of the Cross.
|
 | The Prophecy of Westminster, And other Poems |  |
29
Procession of the League of the Cross.
ARCHBISHOP'S HOUSE, WESTMINSTER, JUNE 7th, 1890.
On a hot summer's day, the seventh of June,
The crowded, humming London afternoon
Was crost by streams convergent, ranks that went
By tens of thousands, orderly, intent
Upon their mission. And the gathering-place
Of these poor Leaguers was an open space
Beneath his windows, where the Cardinal
Might watch their meeting. That familiar road
Lay hot and dusty, with its blank grey wall:
The staring blocks of red-brick mansions stood
In naked hideousness, unshadowed, tall,
A background to the waste enclosure, all
With heaps of rubbish cumbered; and the rows
Of mean and huddled houses baking lay
And sweltering in the sun: small choice for those
Who dwelt therein, between the scorching day
And dust outside, or stifling chambers small
Inside;—for them no rest or cool at all.
Yet, would to God, that day might come again!
For he was there;—oh, happy time and place!
Was the day sultry? Vulgar was the street?
Nay, glorious! At the window might his face
Be caught in glimpses;—then a gleam more sweet
Than that of dewy roses down a lawn
Illumined all the blank;—and when withdrawn,
Content we waited, knowing he was near,
Until the vanished smile should re-appear.
O suddenly irradiated space!
O agèd beautiful face! Our father's face,
Whose every look is benediction! Grace
Is given us still; this little while is ours;
Thine eyes are on us, and beneath thy hand,
Thy blessèd hand of blessing, we may stand;
Still, still the priceless minutes count the hours:—
Oh, would to God that they were ours again!
The crowded, humming London afternoon
Was crost by streams convergent, ranks that went
By tens of thousands, orderly, intent
Upon their mission. And the gathering-place
Of these poor Leaguers was an open space
Beneath his windows, where the Cardinal
Might watch their meeting. That familiar road
Lay hot and dusty, with its blank grey wall:
The staring blocks of red-brick mansions stood
In naked hideousness, unshadowed, tall,
A background to the waste enclosure, all
With heaps of rubbish cumbered; and the rows
Of mean and huddled houses baking lay
And sweltering in the sun: small choice for those
Who dwelt therein, between the scorching day
And dust outside, or stifling chambers small
Inside;—for them no rest or cool at all.
Yet, would to God, that day might come again!
34
Was the day sultry? Vulgar was the street?
Nay, glorious! At the window might his face
Be caught in glimpses;—then a gleam more sweet
Than that of dewy roses down a lawn
Illumined all the blank;—and when withdrawn,
Content we waited, knowing he was near,
Until the vanished smile should re-appear.
O suddenly irradiated space!
O agèd beautiful face! Our father's face,
Whose every look is benediction! Grace
Is given us still; this little while is ours;
Thine eyes are on us, and beneath thy hand,
Thy blessèd hand of blessing, we may stand;
Still, still the priceless minutes count the hours:—
Oh, would to God that they were ours again!
Most patiently, most cheerfully, the throng
Waited, and stood their ground, crowded and hot;
They did not seem to find the hours too long,
Their scanty week-day leisure grudged they not.
This was their holiday—a scorching sky,
A dusty street,—some hours to stand, and then
A march,—a meeting-place:—and by-and-bye
In thirst and hunger, miles to tramp again
To those poor homes where rest is scarcely found
Through the close summer nights;—while all around
Rolled the full tide of luxury and wealth,
Delicious ease, cool garments, rosy health,
Fruits melting, fountains falling, careless ways
Hither and thither as each fancy sways.
And yet these toilers envied not, nor sighed
For any softness of the summer-tide;
But took their pleasure manfully, between
The broiling pavement and the burning sun.
O wise! O fortunate! This hour, this scene,
The pride of all the empire has not won,
The wealth of all the future cannot buy;
This is the one last opportunity
Of meeting here without, and he within:—
Well worth a wearier pilgrimage to win.
The precious moments pass—we know their price—
Here are we,—no, it is no sacrifice,
But an unutterable boon, a thing
To treasure for life-long remembering:—
O, would to God it might but come again!
A woman stood beside me, tattered, rough,
And yet not miserable,—for each limb
Was full of fire, her voice was loud enough;
She pointed wildly at him where he stood,
Exclaiming, “There! there! Bless his soul! That's him!
There's his old Cap!”—Good woman, it was rude;
Her manners were decidedly not quite;—
I did not wish his eyes on her to alight:
Yet would to God that she could do it again!
Waited, and stood their ground, crowded and hot;
They did not seem to find the hours too long,
Their scanty week-day leisure grudged they not.
This was their holiday—a scorching sky,
A dusty street,—some hours to stand, and then
A march,—a meeting-place:—and by-and-bye
In thirst and hunger, miles to tramp again
35
Through the close summer nights;—while all around
Rolled the full tide of luxury and wealth,
Delicious ease, cool garments, rosy health,
Fruits melting, fountains falling, careless ways
Hither and thither as each fancy sways.
And yet these toilers envied not, nor sighed
For any softness of the summer-tide;
But took their pleasure manfully, between
The broiling pavement and the burning sun.
O wise! O fortunate! This hour, this scene,
The pride of all the empire has not won,
The wealth of all the future cannot buy;
This is the one last opportunity
Of meeting here without, and he within:—
Well worth a wearier pilgrimage to win.
The precious moments pass—we know their price—
Here are we,—no, it is no sacrifice,
But an unutterable boon, a thing
To treasure for life-long remembering:—
O, would to God it might but come again!
36
And yet not miserable,—for each limb
Was full of fire, her voice was loud enough;
She pointed wildly at him where he stood,
Exclaiming, “There! there! Bless his soul! That's him!
There's his old Cap!”—Good woman, it was rude;
Her manners were decidedly not quite;—
I did not wish his eyes on her to alight:
Yet would to God that she could do it again!
A pile confused of masonry and wood,
Of scaffold poles, and brickwork incomplete,
Half-hidden by unsightly hoardings, stood
An eyesore at the corner of the street:
On this the children carelessly meanwhile
Clambered, and laughed, and tumbled, at their play.
O, happy children! whom the Father's smile
Beams down upon, for whom the Father's eye
Marks each unconscious movement tenderly!
'Tis a poor, ugly playground, yet to-day,
Outside the folded fields of Paradise,
Ye will not find another place to play
So sweet as this:—for in the Past it lies.
Oh, would to God that it were Now again!
Of scaffold poles, and brickwork incomplete,
Half-hidden by unsightly hoardings, stood
An eyesore at the corner of the street:
On this the children carelessly meanwhile
Clambered, and laughed, and tumbled, at their play.
O, happy children! whom the Father's smile
Beams down upon, for whom the Father's eye
Marks each unconscious movement tenderly!
'Tis a poor, ugly playground, yet to-day,
Outside the folded fields of Paradise,
37
So sweet as this:—for in the Past it lies.
Oh, would to God that it were Now again!
'Tis time at last! With sudden deafening burst
The band strikes up, and forward step the first;
The crowd, a moving column, moves as one,
The march of the procession has begun.
Its length unwinding onward rank by rank,
Forth in the front the banner is unrolled,
The Marshals proudly guiding on the flank,
Girt with their silken sashes green and gold:
Pathetic simple finery that speaks
Of the obscure, heroic days and weeks,
As piece by piece the hoarded price was told.
The Cardinal's Guards—O men of great goodwill!
Hard though your lot, ye have your guerdon here;
What earthly master can ye serve more dear?
What nobler office can earth's proudest fill?
Would you not keep your colours even there,
Where he shall meet you at the palace gate,
Watching for your arrival, soon or late,
Counting you one by one, not one to spare:
His own, his children?—Will you not recall
This day and other days, and meet his eye,
Saying, “We have kept the pledge, My Cardinal!
Now let us be once more thy company!”
And these insignia, green and gold, ye wear,
Shall not be wanting in the happy train
That follow him, their father, and remain
His flock in the eternal pastures fair.
Yet would to God that hour could come again!
The band strikes up, and forward step the first;
The crowd, a moving column, moves as one,
The march of the procession has begun.
Its length unwinding onward rank by rank,
Forth in the front the banner is unrolled,
The Marshals proudly guiding on the flank,
Girt with their silken sashes green and gold:
Pathetic simple finery that speaks
Of the obscure, heroic days and weeks,
As piece by piece the hoarded price was told.
The Cardinal's Guards—O men of great goodwill!
Hard though your lot, ye have your guerdon here;
What earthly master can ye serve more dear?
What nobler office can earth's proudest fill?
Would you not keep your colours even there,
Where he shall meet you at the palace gate,
Watching for your arrival, soon or late,
38
His own, his children?—Will you not recall
This day and other days, and meet his eye,
Saying, “We have kept the pledge, My Cardinal!
Now let us be once more thy company!”
And these insignia, green and gold, ye wear,
Shall not be wanting in the happy train
That follow him, their father, and remain
His flock in the eternal pastures fair.
Yet would to God that hour could come again!
The column rounds the corner:—at its head
The music quickens with the quickened tread;
This is the turning-point, the spot that lies
Right underneath his windows,—there he stands
Full in the front, with sacerdotal hands,
The central soul of each high enterprise.
And rank by rank advancing, as the place
They enter, by one movement, every face
Is raised to his, each hand in all the crowd
Waves a salute, each foot treads firm and proud,
Each heart thrills with a heavenly harmony:—
And for one glorious moment eye meets eye,
Hand answers hand, and heart is one with heart:—
March past, march past, true-hearted soldiery!
The Saints are with you, God is on your part!
The black, large-windowed, overshadowing house
Transfigured into alabaster glows;
It is the frame that holds him:—and the tune
Floats down the street, a story without end;
The air is golden now this afternoon
Out to the West, whither their way they wend,
And all the grime and squalor of the town
Are swallowed in the transitory tide,
The flood-tide of an everlasting sea,
Opening the gloomy walls and pavements wide
To glimpses of the Angel's Rosary.
—Already have the breast-high waves sunk down,
As out of sight the humble pageant fades;
The march's echoes die away, the shades
Of evening lie on the deserted street,
The face is from the window, the retreat
Of humming voices leaves a chill behind:—
Ah, we will come another day, to find
Him here:—the silence answers like a knell.
Yet still the dark house holds its treasure hid,
And none therein to enter are forbid;
The door still opens freely to the bell,—
Ah, would to God there were a door in heaven!
The music quickens with the quickened tread;
This is the turning-point, the spot that lies
Right underneath his windows,—there he stands
Full in the front, with sacerdotal hands,
The central soul of each high enterprise.
And rank by rank advancing, as the place
They enter, by one movement, every face
Is raised to his, each hand in all the crowd
Waves a salute, each foot treads firm and proud,
Each heart thrills with a heavenly harmony:—
And for one glorious moment eye meets eye,
39
March past, march past, true-hearted soldiery!
The Saints are with you, God is on your part!
The black, large-windowed, overshadowing house
Transfigured into alabaster glows;
It is the frame that holds him:—and the tune
Floats down the street, a story without end;
The air is golden now this afternoon
Out to the West, whither their way they wend,
And all the grime and squalor of the town
Are swallowed in the transitory tide,
The flood-tide of an everlasting sea,
Opening the gloomy walls and pavements wide
To glimpses of the Angel's Rosary.
—Already have the breast-high waves sunk down,
As out of sight the humble pageant fades;
The march's echoes die away, the shades
Of evening lie on the deserted street,
The face is from the window, the retreat
Of humming voices leaves a chill behind:—
Ah, we will come another day, to find
Him here:—the silence answers like a knell.
40
And none therein to enter are forbid;
The door still opens freely to the bell,—
Ah, would to God there were a door in heaven!
But, O my Cardinal! thou art safe away,
The mansions of thy Father's house are thine;
The streets of Westminster are dull and grey,
There thy poor people wander still and pine;
No more thy lamp doth from the window shine,
Yet would to God that they might see thee again!
The mansions of thy Father's house are thine;
The streets of Westminster are dull and grey,
There thy poor people wander still and pine;
No more thy lamp doth from the window shine,
Yet would to God that they might see thee again!
Thou art gone from earth, and light of life with thee:
Oh, aching hearts and lonely, left behind!
Come back to us, one more last look to see!
Oh no, no, no, O most sweet soul, most kind!
We would not break thy rest, nor call to mind
The shadow of our earthly misery:
Farewell, farewell to thy eternity!
But oh! some day once more thy face to find!—
Oh, would to God—O God, Thy Will be done!
Oh, aching hearts and lonely, left behind!
Come back to us, one more last look to see!
Oh no, no, no, O most sweet soul, most kind!
We would not break thy rest, nor call to mind
The shadow of our earthly misery:
Farewell, farewell to thy eternity!
But oh! some day once more thy face to find!—
Oh, would to God—O God, Thy Will be done!
| The Prophecy of Westminster, And other Poems | |