Gods, Saints & Men By Eugene Lee-Hamilton ... With Ten Full-Page Illustartions Designed by Enrico Mazzanti |
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THE BELL FOUNDER OF AUGSBURG. |
 | Gods, Saints & Men |  |
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THE BELL FOUNDER OF AUGSBURG.
A mighty bell that's slowly tolling,
With a deep and mellow boom,
High above the life that's rolling
From the cradle to the tomb;
A mighty bell, which those of old
Have heard, and which shall still be tolled
For generations yet unborn;
A mighty bell whose brazen voice
Now bids the City to rejoice,
And now with all its heart to mourn;
A mighty bell which lives the life
Of the people, and recordeth
Fire, and Flood, and City-strife,
And whate'er the Lord awardeth
That the pregnant years should bring,
Is a grand and solemn thing.
With a deep and mellow boom,
High above the life that's rolling
From the cradle to the tomb;
A mighty bell, which those of old
Have heard, and which shall still be tolled
For generations yet unborn;
A mighty bell whose brazen voice
Now bids the City to rejoice,
And now with all its heart to mourn;
A mighty bell which lives the life
Of the people, and recordeth
Fire, and Flood, and City-strife,
And whate'er the Lord awardeth
That the pregnant years should bring,
Is a grand and solemn thing.
And of such a bell as this,
Tolling o'er the deep abyss,
From its great Cathedral Tower
In the dusky twilight hour;
Filling with its measured boom
All the gloom;
Let me now the story tell.
How the earliest note that sounded
From the giant newly founded
Was its maker's passing knell.
Tolling o'er the deep abyss,
From its great Cathedral Tower
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Filling with its measured boom
All the gloom;
Let me now the story tell.
How the earliest note that sounded
From the giant newly founded
Was its maker's passing knell.
For this is what the legend says:
At Augsburg in the olden days,
Before King Weather seized his palette
And painted grey the City's towers
With winter storms and summer showers
Before King Time took up his mallet
And left his dints and cruel traces,
On the fair fronts of holy places;
At Augsburg—when throughout the land
Rose many a minster rich and grand,
When towered cites, strong and free,
Whose narrow gabled streets were filled
With waving flags of many a guild,
Were homes of proud activity;
When goldsmiths wrought with patient chisel,
A lifetime ere a chain was made,
And armourers with age would grizzle
While stooping o'er a single blade—
There lived a very famous founder
Of bells, whose name was Master John.
No founder cast a metal sounder,
Or bells more fair to look upon;
His great big bells, all sunny yellow,
Gave out a sound superb and mellow;
In all that country he alone
Could give the true, the glorious tone,
And knew the secret of the proper
Proportion of the tin and copper;
And whereso'er a Gothic spire
At last had ceased to rise still higher,
The priests who sought sonorous bronze
Were sure to go to Master John's.
At Augsburg in the olden days,
Before King Weather seized his palette
And painted grey the City's towers
With winter storms and summer showers
Before King Time took up his mallet
And left his dints and cruel traces,
On the fair fronts of holy places;
At Augsburg—when throughout the land
Rose many a minster rich and grand,
When towered cites, strong and free,
Whose narrow gabled streets were filled
With waving flags of many a guild,
Were homes of proud activity;
When goldsmiths wrought with patient chisel,
A lifetime ere a chain was made,
And armourers with age would grizzle
While stooping o'er a single blade—
There lived a very famous founder
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No founder cast a metal sounder,
Or bells more fair to look upon;
His great big bells, all sunny yellow,
Gave out a sound superb and mellow;
In all that country he alone
Could give the true, the glorious tone,
And knew the secret of the proper
Proportion of the tin and copper;
And whereso'er a Gothic spire
At last had ceased to rise still higher,
The priests who sought sonorous bronze
Were sure to go to Master John's.
He was a strong and earnest man,
Of aspect rough, and over fifty;
Self-made and sober, ever thrifty,
Whose beard to grizzle had begun;
A man unswerving, and whose heart
Was wholly given to his art:
A man of work, a man of will,
A man of thought and patient skill;
Upon whose bronzed and furrowed brow
The sweat but seldom ceased to flow;
A man to all the town endeared,
And whom alone the idle feared,
For all his 'prentices agreed
That if his wrath was rashly vented,
His heart was kind, and he repented
As quickly of the word or deed.
A many were the bells he founded,
And all had to his fame redounded;
And not a few were big, I ween;
And yet his mind ne'er ceased to dwell
Upon a bigger, mightier bell
Than any he had made or seen.
But how and when? No bell was needed
Of such a size. The years succeeded
Each other, and no order came;
But yet he planned it all the same,
And firmly cherished the persuasion
That God would send him the occasion.
And so indeed the thing befell.
One day the city's largest bell,
Which hands, long turned to dust, had cast,
With toil and trouble in the past,
Uttered its last vibrating cry,
(For bells, like men, at length must die),
And it was settled by the people
That in the great and empty steeple
A greater, mightier, bell should stand,
Louder than any in the land;
A bell, whose every echoing note
Should o'er the town and suburbs float.
He framed the giant model slowly,
For loving work abhorreth haste;
And every scroll and garland wholly
With his own hand the master traced.
He gave it with a secret joy
A curve unknown to bells in use;
And planned a new and bold alloy
Which should a wondrous tone produce.
No labour and no pain he shirked;
But oft alone at night he worked,
Moulding the city's old escutcheon,
Until the morning stars were dim,
Or slowly carving the inscription,
Which ran in couplets round the rim:—
Of aspect rough, and over fifty;
Self-made and sober, ever thrifty,
Whose beard to grizzle had begun;
A man unswerving, and whose heart
Was wholly given to his art:
A man of work, a man of will,
A man of thought and patient skill;
Upon whose bronzed and furrowed brow
The sweat but seldom ceased to flow;
A man to all the town endeared,
And whom alone the idle feared,
For all his 'prentices agreed
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His heart was kind, and he repented
As quickly of the word or deed.
A many were the bells he founded,
And all had to his fame redounded;
And not a few were big, I ween;
And yet his mind ne'er ceased to dwell
Upon a bigger, mightier bell
Than any he had made or seen.
But how and when? No bell was needed
Of such a size. The years succeeded
Each other, and no order came;
But yet he planned it all the same,
And firmly cherished the persuasion
That God would send him the occasion.
And so indeed the thing befell.
One day the city's largest bell,
Which hands, long turned to dust, had cast,
With toil and trouble in the past,
Uttered its last vibrating cry,
(For bells, like men, at length must die),
And it was settled by the people
That in the great and empty steeple
A greater, mightier, bell should stand,
Louder than any in the land;
A bell, whose every echoing note
Should o'er the town and suburbs float.
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For loving work abhorreth haste;
And every scroll and garland wholly
With his own hand the master traced.
He gave it with a secret joy
A curve unknown to bells in use;
And planned a new and bold alloy
Which should a wondrous tone produce.
No labour and no pain he shirked;
But oft alone at night he worked,
Moulding the city's old escutcheon,
Until the morning stars were dim,
Or slowly carving the inscription,
Which ran in couplets round the rim:—
Sleep secure; for I will call
If the foe approach the wall.
If the foe approach the wall.
Sleep secure; for from my spire
I will raise the cry of fire.
I will raise the cry of fire.
Sleep secure; for I will wake you
Ere the swollen stream o'ertake you.
Ere the swollen stream o'ertake you.
Where I toll may corn and wine
Never fail, nor fatten'd kine.
Never fail, nor fatten'd kine.
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Where I toll may men agree,
Living orderly and free.
Living orderly and free.
Where I toll may justice reign
In the city and the plain.
In the city and the plain.
And so the Master worked away,
He and his men for many a day;
Until the well-baked mould of clay,
Wall'd deep within the ground, and steady
As Earth itself, at last was ready;
And till the furnace loud was roaring,
And all was over, save the pouring.
He and his men for many a day;
Until the well-baked mould of clay,
Wall'd deep within the ground, and steady
As Earth itself, at last was ready;
And till the furnace loud was roaring,
And all was over, save the pouring.
'Twas late at night. The mingled metals
Were letting wholesome bubbles rise;
And God, who every issue settles,
Appeared to bless the enterprise.
But Master John, whose practised glance
Observed the glowing surface dance
With transient gleams of lurid red,
Knew well that time must still elapse,
Unless he wished to court mishaps;
And to his 'prentices he said:
“Now will I leave you for a little;
The bell, cast now, would be but brittle;
Ye all have eaten and have rested
At various times throughout the day;
But I nor food nor rest have tasted,
Since early morn was cold and gray.”
And then he bade the 'prentice Fritz,
His chosen lad of ready wits,
To watch with care the molten ore,
While he himself should step next door
To snatch a meal, and quaff a clear
And foaming mug of nut-brown beer.
Were letting wholesome bubbles rise;
And God, who every issue settles,
Appeared to bless the enterprise.
But Master John, whose practised glance
Observed the glowing surface dance
With transient gleams of lurid red,
Knew well that time must still elapse,
Unless he wished to court mishaps;
And to his 'prentices he said:
“Now will I leave you for a little;
The bell, cast now, would be but brittle;
Ye all have eaten and have rested
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But I nor food nor rest have tasted,
Since early morn was cold and gray.”
And then he bade the 'prentice Fritz,
His chosen lad of ready wits,
To watch with care the molten ore,
While he himself should step next door
To snatch a meal, and quaff a clear
And foaming mug of nut-brown beer.
The 'prentice Fritz, when he was gone,
Sat by the molten mass alone;
And watched the metal surface shiver,
With lurid eddies circling ever.
Some say that evil spirits lurk
In molten ore and mischief work,
Bewitching luckless wights who look
Too long at metals as they cook,
And leading wretches on at times
To fatal ills or mighty crimes.
Did some such spirit now decoy,
The lad who watched the new alloy?
I know not: but he seemed to hear
Strange whispered words, nor far nor near.
The metal said, Oh let me flow
At once into the mould below;
Why make me on this furnace linger,
When thou need'st only raise a finger?
Why make me wait another hour,
Oh thou that hast me in thy power?
And as the 'prentice looked and listened,
And saw the bronze that seethed and glistened;
His fingers itched to touch the sluice,
And let the restless monster loose.
With guilty eyes he round him glanced;
His hand advanced, withdrew, advanced;
Till, all at once the fiery-hot
And hissing metal forward shot,
And while the smoke in volumes rolled,
All prematurely filled the mould.
Sat by the molten mass alone;
And watched the metal surface shiver,
With lurid eddies circling ever.
Some say that evil spirits lurk
In molten ore and mischief work,
Bewitching luckless wights who look
Too long at metals as they cook,
And leading wretches on at times
To fatal ills or mighty crimes.
Did some such spirit now decoy,
The lad who watched the new alloy?
I know not: but he seemed to hear
Strange whispered words, nor far nor near.
The metal said, Oh let me flow
At once into the mould below;
Why make me on this furnace linger,
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Why make me wait another hour,
Oh thou that hast me in thy power?
And as the 'prentice looked and listened,
And saw the bronze that seethed and glistened;
His fingers itched to touch the sluice,
And let the restless monster loose.
With guilty eyes he round him glanced;
His hand advanced, withdrew, advanced;
Till, all at once the fiery-hot
And hissing metal forward shot,
And while the smoke in volumes rolled,
All prematurely filled the mould.
Scarce was the senseless act committed
Than sense with crushing weight returned;
And all the measure of his folly
The luckless Fritz with fear discerned.
The mould, constructed at such cost,
Was doubtless split; the bell was lost,
The work of months, the dream of years,
The object of all hopes and fears.
The mighty bell, which Master John
Had lavished all his skill upon,
Was now no more, but would be found
Mere shapeless rubbish in the ground.
With guilty fear the 'prentice trembled,
Yet all his courage he assembled,
And had sufficient strength to run
And stammer out what he had done.
The rough and grizzly John was seated
Over his meal, his knife in hand.
He stared, nor seemed to understand;
But when he heard the words repeated,
The blood rushed fiercely to his head;
A sudden flush his face o'erspread.
And cursing, at a single bound
He fell upon him like a hound,
And with his knife he struck him dead.
Than sense with crushing weight returned;
And all the measure of his folly
The luckless Fritz with fear discerned.
The mould, constructed at such cost,
Was doubtless split; the bell was lost,
The work of months, the dream of years,
The object of all hopes and fears.
The mighty bell, which Master John
Had lavished all his skill upon,
Was now no more, but would be found
Mere shapeless rubbish in the ground.
With guilty fear the 'prentice trembled,
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And had sufficient strength to run
And stammer out what he had done.
The rough and grizzly John was seated
Over his meal, his knife in hand.
He stared, nor seemed to understand;
But when he heard the words repeated,
The blood rushed fiercely to his head;
A sudden flush his face o'erspread.
And cursing, at a single bound
He fell upon him like a hound,
And with his knife he struck him dead.
An awful stillness follows sudden crimes.
The furious wave, which has o'erwhelmed and swallowed
Our innocence, by sudden calm is followed,
As are the squalls of tempest-troubled climes.
No outward stir betrays the wreck beneath;
The wave has passed, and underneath is death.
The wretch, in dull dejection, scarcely knows
Why all is changed, or how the storm arose.
No tempest yesterday, and none to-day;
But, 'tween the two, a fatal minute lies,
And if to-day is calm, no sunbeams play
Upon the waves, and leaden are the skies.
As Master John in prison lay,
And weeks passed emptily away,
Was it the 'prentice or the bell
He brooded over,—who can tell?
Perchance it was o'er both; they blended
In one dull, aching sense of loss,
Of ruined life, of honour ended,
As on his mattress he would toss.
In silent apathetic gloom,
He heard himself condemned to death:
What need, he thought, of life's sweet breath
To one on whom there is a doom?
For he had loved the lad he killed;
And when he thought how brave, and skilled,
And young he was, an anguish filled
His soul; he cursed the deed he'd done,
And felt as if he'd slain a son.
And then, again, his thoughts would dwell
There, in his narrow prison cell,
Upon his great and ill-starred bell.
Until at night, when dreams have power,
He fancied for a transient hour
That nought had happened, nought was wrong;
And that the bell, superb and strong,
Amid the shouting of the throng,
Was being hoisted to its tower,
Where with its big and brazen voice
It cried to all: Rejoice, Rejoice!
The furious wave, which has o'erwhelmed and swallowed
Our innocence, by sudden calm is followed,
As are the squalls of tempest-troubled climes.
No outward stir betrays the wreck beneath;
The wave has passed, and underneath is death.
The wretch, in dull dejection, scarcely knows
Why all is changed, or how the storm arose.
No tempest yesterday, and none to-day;
But, 'tween the two, a fatal minute lies,
And if to-day is calm, no sunbeams play
Upon the waves, and leaden are the skies.
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And weeks passed emptily away,
Was it the 'prentice or the bell
He brooded over,—who can tell?
Perchance it was o'er both; they blended
In one dull, aching sense of loss,
Of ruined life, of honour ended,
As on his mattress he would toss.
In silent apathetic gloom,
He heard himself condemned to death:
What need, he thought, of life's sweet breath
To one on whom there is a doom?
For he had loved the lad he killed;
And when he thought how brave, and skilled,
And young he was, an anguish filled
His soul; he cursed the deed he'd done,
And felt as if he'd slain a son.
And then, again, his thoughts would dwell
There, in his narrow prison cell,
Upon his great and ill-starred bell.
Until at night, when dreams have power,
He fancied for a transient hour
That nought had happened, nought was wrong;
And that the bell, superb and strong,
Amid the shouting of the throng,
Was being hoisted to its tower,
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It cried to all: Rejoice, Rejoice!
There was a custom, born of pity,
And immemorial, in the city:
That in each Year of Jubilee,
A death-doomed captive, not o'erhardened,
Should by the magistrates be pardoned,
And straightway set at liberty.
The city's rulers sent to fetch,
Four times each century, some wretch
On whom the sun had hopeless risen,
And bade him, ere he left his prison,
Give thanks to God, for he was free.
Now this same year just chanced to be
The holy Year of Jubilee;
And Master John, as all expected,
Was for this special grace selected.
But when they came he shook his head:
“It cannot be,” he simply said,
“And all your arguments are vain.
The blow is struck, the lad is dead,
And nought can give him life again.
Upon the big and luckless bell,
On whose account all this befel,
I wrote, and now would write again:
Where I shall toll let Justice reign.”
If ye, who judged me, have forgiven,
So have not I, nor yet hath Heaven;
Then let me die, and grant his life
To some poor wretch who hath a wife
And children; I, ye know, have none.”
And immemorial, in the city:
That in each Year of Jubilee,
A death-doomed captive, not o'erhardened,
Should by the magistrates be pardoned,
And straightway set at liberty.
The city's rulers sent to fetch,
Four times each century, some wretch
On whom the sun had hopeless risen,
And bade him, ere he left his prison,
Give thanks to God, for he was free.
Now this same year just chanced to be
The holy Year of Jubilee;
And Master John, as all expected,
Was for this special grace selected.
But when they came he shook his head:
“It cannot be,” he simply said,
“And all your arguments are vain.
The blow is struck, the lad is dead,
And nought can give him life again.
Upon the big and luckless bell,
On whose account all this befel,
I wrote, and now would write again:
Where I shall toll let Justice reign.”
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So have not I, nor yet hath Heaven;
Then let me die, and grant his life
To some poor wretch who hath a wife
And children; I, ye know, have none.”
So spake he, and the thing was done.
Upon the morrow, ere the sun
Had risen, and the birds begun
To twitter and each other waken;
From out his prison he was taken
Towards the execution place.
It was a square and ample space,
Already filled for many an hour;
Beyond it loomed a dusky tower,
Above the roofs immensely high,
Against the morning's crimson sky.
It was the same in which his bell,
Had it not perished, now would dwell;
And heeding not the seething throng
He fixed his eyes upon it long,
As if its form possessed a spell.
But suddenly the prisoner started,
His pallid lips in rapture parted;
For from the tower in the gloom
There came a great and mellow boom
As of a bell, and then a second.
He knew it well: it was his own:
His own great bell, which could alone
Give out that deep and glorious tone:
That wondrous sound on which he'd reckoned,
When in his shop with secret joy
He first had planned his new alloy;
So, after all, that bell so cherished,
So mourned, so fatal, had not perished!
With steady step and radiant face
He climbed the steps and took his place,
And in the tolling read that Heaven,
Approved his death, and had forgiven.
Upon the morrow, ere the sun
Had risen, and the birds begun
To twitter and each other waken;
From out his prison he was taken
Towards the execution place.
It was a square and ample space,
Already filled for many an hour;
Beyond it loomed a dusky tower,
Above the roofs immensely high,
Against the morning's crimson sky.
It was the same in which his bell,
Had it not perished, now would dwell;
And heeding not the seething throng
He fixed his eyes upon it long,
As if its form possessed a spell.
But suddenly the prisoner started,
His pallid lips in rapture parted;
For from the tower in the gloom
There came a great and mellow boom
As of a bell, and then a second.
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His own great bell, which could alone
Give out that deep and glorious tone:
That wondrous sound on which he'd reckoned,
When in his shop with secret joy
He first had planned his new alloy;
So, after all, that bell so cherished,
So mourned, so fatal, had not perished!
With steady step and radiant face
He climbed the steps and took his place,
And in the tolling read that Heaven,
Approved his death, and had forgiven.
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