 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
FATHER INNES, S.J.
He was a dark, spare, sickly man,
And had a rapt look in his eyes,
Still young in years, but pale and wan;
And well himself he could disguise:
A fisher's garb he sometimes wore,
As chapman now he bore a pack,
A valet next at a great man's door,
But ever the Priest was at his back.
And had a rapt look in his eyes,
Still young in years, but pale and wan;
And well himself he could disguise:
A fisher's garb he sometimes wore,
As chapman now he bore a pack,
A valet next at a great man's door,
But ever the Priest was at his back.
One day he lay in a cave, perdu—
A cave in a waste and wind-swept moor,
And heard the cry of the wild curlew,
And thought of the ills he did endure,
And to himself he muttered low,
Impatient of his luckless fate,
For he had trysted then to go
Where death was coming, and would not wait.
A cave in a waste and wind-swept moor,
And heard the cry of the wild curlew,
And thought of the ills he did endure,
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Impatient of his luckless fate,
For he had trysted then to go
Where death was coming, and would not wait.
Hark! to the shouts of armèd men,
And the tramp of horses ridden hard,
They search for me o'er hill and glen
To earn a vile law's vile reward,
While one who has my promise true,
And who is needing ghostly aid,
May wait until his hour is due,
And pass unshriven among the dead.
And the tramp of horses ridden hard,
They search for me o'er hill and glen
To earn a vile law's vile reward,
While one who has my promise true,
And who is needing ghostly aid,
May wait until his hour is due,
And pass unshriven among the dead.
What have I done that I must hide
With the wild beasts in dens and caves,
Or on some sea-girt isle abide,
Where gulls shriek to the breaking waves?
My father's home I long to see,
But they have lodged a preacher there
To catechise the family,
And trap the children in their snare.
With the wild beasts in dens and caves,
Or on some sea-girt isle abide,
Where gulls shriek to the breaking waves?
My father's home I long to see,
But they have lodged a preacher there
To catechise the family,
And trap the children in their snare.
I pass from house to house at night
When there is neither moon nor star,
That I may reach, ere morning light,
Some shelter where the Faithful are;
By faintest tracks I cross the moor,
Oft blinded by the rain and snow,
To creep in by some secret door,
And hide me in a chamber low.
When there is neither moon nor star,
That I may reach, ere morning light,
Some shelter where the Faithful are;
By faintest tracks I cross the moor,
Oft blinded by the rain and snow,
To creep in by some secret door,
And hide me in a chamber low.
Perchance it is a baron's hall,
Perchance 'tis but a fisher's cot,
But mansion big, or hovel small,
A hiding-place is all I've got—
No home for me, no warm fireside,
No haunt of tender love and peace,
Where fretting cares are laid aside,
And fears of sudden peril cease.
Perchance 'tis but a fisher's cot,
But mansion big, or hovel small,
A hiding-place is all I've got—
No home for me, no warm fireside,
No haunt of tender love and peace,
Where fretting cares are laid aside,
And fears of sudden peril cease.
Why should I as an outlaw live
For doing what the Church enjoins,
And giving, as I strive to give,
Poor souls the grace that girds their loins?
I take my life into my hand—
And never would I grudge the price—
When offering up by Christ's command
The sacramental sacrifice.
For doing what the Church enjoins,
And giving, as I strive to give,
Poor souls the grace that girds their loins?
I take my life into my hand—
And never would I grudge the price—
When offering up by Christ's command
The sacramental sacrifice.
I take my soul into my hand,
At times, when, to avoid pursuit,
In some rude ale-house far inland
I ruffle it with sot and brute;
Or worse, when I perchance must go
To kirk, with many sickening qualms,
And groan, and wear a look of woe,
And hear their sermons and their psalms.
At times, when, to avoid pursuit,
In some rude ale-house far inland
I ruffle it with sot and brute;
Or worse, when I perchance must go
To kirk, with many sickening qualms,
And groan, and wear a look of woe,
And hear their sermons and their psalms.
I do it not for men's applause
Whereon the heart oft vainly leans,
I do it for a holy cause
That surely sanctifies the means;
I do it for the Church's sake,
Although I have a sense of sin,
Till full confession I can make,
And priestly absolution win.
Whereon the heart oft vainly leans,
I do it for a holy cause
That surely sanctifies the means;
I do it for the Church's sake,
Although I have a sense of sin,
Till full confession I can make,
And priestly absolution win.
Yet wherefore do I now complain
In poor self-pity, when I think
Of the full cup of shame and pain
The heroes of our Order drink,
The tortures that do rack their joints,
The horrors that they have to see,
The aches and grief that God appoints
To perfect their great Charity?
In poor self-pity, when I think
Of the full cup of shame and pain
The heroes of our Order drink,
The tortures that do rack their joints,
The horrors that they have to see,
The aches and grief that God appoints
To perfect their great Charity?
And oh, when in some house of worth
I venture from my hiding-place,
And bring the sacred vessels forth,
And sain them for the work of grace,
And then decore the altar fit,
And cense the air with incense faint
In castle-chapel, dimly lit,
Or crumbling shrine of some old saint;
I venture from my hiding-place,
And bring the sacred vessels forth,
And sain them for the work of grace,
And then decore the altar fit,
And cense the air with incense faint
In castle-chapel, dimly lit,
Or crumbling shrine of some old saint;
And when they all, with one accord,
Before the uplifted Host do kneel,
And worship and adore the Lord,—
Oh the glad recompense I feel!
I know my face then shineth bright,
And every pulse beats clear and strong,
My darkness then is filled with light
And glory and the voice of song.
Before the uplifted Host do kneel,
And worship and adore the Lord,—
Oh the glad recompense I feel!
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And every pulse beats clear and strong,
My darkness then is filled with light
And glory and the voice of song.
I bring them comfort, dry their tears,
Their longing souls I satisfy:
What matter then my cares and fears?
What matter if I live or die?
E'en let the rogues make harsher laws,
And hang or drown or burn my youth,
A martyr in a holy cause,
They shall not overthrow the truth.
Their longing souls I satisfy:
What matter then my cares and fears?
What matter if I live or die?
E'en let the rogues make harsher laws,
And hang or drown or burn my youth,
A martyr in a holy cause,
They shall not overthrow the truth.
He knew it not; but close beside
A hot recusant darkly lay,
Who from the same pursuit did hide,
And to the cave had made his way.
As lean and pale and frail was he,
The same rapt look was in his eyes,
He had the same hard weird to dree,
But not the same art for disguise.
A hot recusant darkly lay,
Who from the same pursuit did hide,
And to the cave had made his way.
As lean and pale and frail was he,
The same rapt look was in his eyes,
He had the same hard weird to dree,
But not the same art for disguise.
For always he must testify
'Gainst Pope and Prelate, and the Priests
That traffic in idolatry,
And keep old Pagan fasts and feasts;
And hearing what the other spake,
He cried in accents loud and clear,
“I do arrest thee, Priest, and make
Thee captive of my bow and spear.”
'Gainst Pope and Prelate, and the Priests
That traffic in idolatry,
And keep old Pagan fasts and feasts;
And hearing what the other spake,
He cried in accents loud and clear,
“I do arrest thee, Priest, and make
Thee captive of my bow and spear.”
So there they stood up face to face,
And looked into each other's eyes,
And both were silent for a space,
And touched as with a strange surprise,
They were so like, so wan and lean,
So hot in theologic strife,
So sure of all their thoughts, and keen,
And had so frail a hold of life.
And looked into each other's eyes,
And both were silent for a space,
And touched as with a strange surprise,
They were so like, so wan and lean,
So hot in theologic strife,
So sure of all their thoughts, and keen,
And had so frail a hold of life.
Then said the Priest, “Go, fool! be still;
I've been a soldier in my day,
And carry arms, and I will kill
The man who would my life betray.
Yet care I not my hands to soil
With your dull peasant's sluggish blood;
Hence to your proper task of toil,
And plod among the muck and mud.”
I've been a soldier in my day,
And carry arms, and I will kill
The man who would my life betray.
Yet care I not my hands to soil
With your dull peasant's sluggish blood;
Hence to your proper task of toil,
And plod among the muck and mud.”
The other answered, “Lying Priest,
Deceiver of the souls of men,
Your time will come, but I, at least,
Will leave you in God's hands till then.
Far better toil at meanest task
Than traffic in deceit like thee,
And daily wear a lying mask,
And practise plain idolatry.”
Deceiver of the souls of men,
Your time will come, but I, at least,
Will leave you in God's hands till then.
Far better toil at meanest task
Than traffic in deceit like thee,
And daily wear a lying mask,
And practise plain idolatry.”
Then silent both, in scorn or hate,
They heard the baffled troopers rage,
And marked their hot pursuit abate,
Each brooding o'er a well-conned page;
One read his book of Hours, and one
Through chapters of his Bible ranged,
And when the lingering day was done,
Their hearts abided still unchanged.
They heard the baffled troopers rage,
And marked their hot pursuit abate,
Each brooding o'er a well-conned page;
One read his book of Hours, and one
Through chapters of his Bible ranged,
And when the lingering day was done,
Their hearts abided still unchanged.
And parting sullenly at last,
They went their several ways; but yet,
When many troubled years had passed,
Once more for one brief hour they met:
A Priest was carted to his fate,
A Whig brought to the gallows high;
I doubt if either ceased to hate—
I know that neither feared to die.
They went their several ways; but yet,
When many troubled years had passed,
Once more for one brief hour they met:
A Priest was carted to his fate,
A Whig brought to the gallows high;
I doubt if either ceased to hate—
I know that neither feared to die.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |