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URBAN THE MONK.
A German Legend.
I. PART I. THE LIBRARY.
I.
Young Urban keeps the burnished keysOf the Scriptorium; and he sits
Through sunny noons in dreamful ease,
Reading or copying, by fits;
Or adding quaint and golden tints,
Or plushy purples to the page
Of mass-book, or of breviary,
Of holy father, bard, or sage;
Till all the full-lored vellums swim
In crimsons and in purples dim,
And common words, in soft array,
Prance down the page, like palfry gay,
Trapped all in gold, to bear away
The faëry form of princess prim.
And whether round the abbey blow
The soft south winds, with overflow
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Lies white upon the ground below,
And tempests round the belfry go,
'Tis all the same to him!
II.
All through the sunny summer noon,When lilies over wall-flowers swoon,
And, in the honeyed heart of June,
The bee on roses feeds—
He pores, amid the shadiest nooks,
Over the gold-illumined books,
With earnest face, and eager looks,
Believing all he reads.
III.
Legends of saints fill up the gloomOf winter nights, and drizzling days:—
He sees them swim along his room,
And then wind upward, in a bloom
Of roseate colours, dipt in gloom,
Wrapped in a trembling haze
Of cloudy splendour, bulging low;
Billows of fire, as white as snow,
Roll with pale crimsons down below
Their sandal'd feet, with motion slow;
And round about their bare heads go
Halos, like sunset rays!
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IV.
Of holy martyrs, too, he reads—Of blessed Blandina—Appian—
Quinta the pure—and Ulpian—
Metra—and blameless Adrian;
Until his young heart pants and bleeds
For those who, for the true faith died;
How some were torn by wild-beasts; some
Flung into boiling pitch; and some
Tormented in the murderous hum
Of Rome, were crucified;
How mangled Porphyry dauntless stood,
With flayed ribs slowly dripping blood,
Daring the tyrant's ire;
How Polycarp, with garments riven,
Went with a holy shout to heaven
On flickering wings of fire!
V.
Mingled with these were legends oldOf wondrous knights and ladies gay;
The Cid, Sir Roland, Tristram bold,
Streamed in rich trappings, jingling gold,
Over the crimson sunset wold,
Adown the sinking day;
And ladies, with a silken swim,
Fluttered along the mossy brim
Of meres, by deep woods hushed and dim,
On to the bright tournáy,
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VI.
But chief he loved the mystic storyOf saintly knights, with faces pale,
Who spurned the earth, and earthly glory,
And went in quest of Holy Grail.
He followed them on by land and flood—
Sir Parzival—brave and holy knight—
And bold Sir Galahad—the good;
He heard them clanging through the night,
Over the pavements, still and white,
Their studded bridles jingling light,
Flashing amid the soft moonlight,
And saw them skim along the wood—
Up alleys of moonbeams, trembling pale—
Past church, and city, and lordly tower,
And valley, and swamp, and lady's bower,
All in the hush of the midnight hour,
In quest of Holy Grail!
VII.
Titurel's temple o'er him rose,Blushing with gems, and gorgeous glows
Of golden domes, and twinkling spires;
Roses of rubies, and pale fires
Of clustered diamonds shook about
The wondrous fabric in and out;
And in the central sanctuary,
On a thick slab of porphyry,
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Outshimmering like a cloudy moon;
And o'er it swelled a mimic noon
Of topaz, and of jasper bright,
Hung in the sapphire ceiling light;
Outside, the dome bulged up red gold,
With blue enamel fretted o'er;
And banners, with unruffled fold,
Hung silken out at every door;
And round about the Holy Grail
Rose two-and-seventy chapels, pale
With gold and diamonds; every two
Shot up a tower into the blue
Like sudden flame; and over those
Shook crystal crosses in the light,
Clutched from above within the claws
Of gold spread-eagles, day and night;
And o'er the central dome there rose
A huge carbuncle, with red glows
And sullen splendour, like a sun
Lighting the cypress-forest dun,
That round about the temple stood,
Filling its shadowy heart with blood:—
And none might tread that mystic hight
Of hushed Montsalvage, save the knight
Chosen of Him of holy-rood!
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VIII.
And still he turns the gilded leaves;And, rich in faith, the monk believes
Further than logic ere hath got:—
His creed soars higher than his sight—
Reason is not his only light;—
Still through the hot bewildered night,
Angels go heavenward, clad in white,
And so he reads, and doubteth not!
II. PART II. DOUBTING CASTLE.
I.
Alas the day! Alas the hour!The sullen clouds, with downward roll,
And heart of hidden thunders lower
Over the brightness of his soul.
He sits in sadness, in his room,
Wrapped in the old Tartarean gloom,
Murmuring, in dire perplexity,
“This is a fearful mystery;—
I cannot think how this can be!”
II.
It is the holy Sabbath day;The Bible rests upon his knee;
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Although his lips the words may say
With shuddering effort, yet the “Nay”
Is in his heart; and piteously
He murmurs low—“A mystery—
I cannot think how this may be!”
III.
Ye pitying heavens help him now!And take the cloud from off his brow,
And draw the fang from out his smart:—
Into the garden of his heart
The storm hath gone, with cruel cry,
And all is dead from sward to sky!
IV.
For he has read how, unto HimWho ruleth all things with a nod,
Time is as nought; how unto God
A thousand years are as a day,
Or as a night-watch; and he feels
His heart rock in the stormy “Nay!”
That will be heard, both night and day,
Although he struggles hard to pray
And cannot, though he kneels!
V.
At church, he seems a guilty thing;He hears the full-choired anthems ring
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The bannered aisles about;
But they have lost the air divine:—
Seems all a blank, and idiot sign,
The bright soul shaken out!
VI.
Through the east window shines the sun,With mellow splendour, warm and dun;
Through violet tints, and gorgeous streams
Of falling robes, and softest creams
Of rapt saints' halos—flashing gleams
Of roses dankling—mingled beams
Rich as the silks of Trebizond:—
He marks the sunlight as it paints
That glorious cloud of holy saints,
Until his shuddering spirit faints;
For, though he sees that heaven of saints,
There is no other heaven beyond!
VII.
He hears the golden gust and rushOf rich and mellow organ thunder,
Now winding heavenward in a gush
Of swelling praise and holy wonder,
Now falling, with a soft rebound,
Rolling deep basses round and round;
Till fluted notes again aspire
In lark-like dartings;—from the choir,
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One note rich-throbbing in desire
Goes giddy in a whirl of fire
Up shuddering solitudes of sound;
And then returning,
Earthward yearning,
Lo! the luted music falls
Soft as water down the walls
Of sparry grottos, underground;
Then, like sword-blades glancing brightly,
Plunge the sudden notes out lightly,
Till the treble swerves and skips,
And the muffled thunder, low
Rolling inward, heaves and dips,
Like a midnight sea-swell;—lo!
Clarion-bugles seem to blow,
And all the loosened grandeurs go
Rocking sweetly to and fro,
In a sumptuous overflow,
And throbbing harmonies kiss like lips:
Still, amid the golden blare,
Rolling thunderous through the air
The bannered aisles about,
Like a curse flung into prayer,
Hears he hissing his wild doubt;
And he feels the holy chapel
Holier were, were he without.
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III. PART III. THE LITTLE BIRD.
I.
Out from the books and stifling room,Out of the shadows and the gloom,
Into the cloister-garden bright,
Into the summer air and light!
II.
He wanders in the humming breeze,Amid the shadows of the trees,
Himself a shadow, ill at ease.
III.
When lo! from out a neighbouring copse,With richest plumage sunny bright,
Making a wheel of coloured light,
A little bird, aflutter, drops
Down upon the pear-tree tops,
Hopping lightly,
Glancing brightly
'Mid the twisted, shadowy boughs,
Raining lightnings round his brows.
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IV.
A glory and a wonder areIts crested colours to the sight;
It shakes with music, as a star
Trembles with excess of light:
Round about its throat assemble
Blushes of the damask rose;
And a deepening violet goes
Sleeking down its back, atremble;
Rich and hazy flutterings
Glow about its yellow wings
Dancing golden in the light;
Like a crowd of singing sunbeams
Gleams the little vision bright.
V.
Tame it seems, too, as a birdBorn amid the tropics hushed,
Where no flower is ever crushed,
And no voice of man is heard;—
Nothing but a gorgeous noon,
And a silent silken river,
And an endless, endless June
Sinking down into a swoon,
Or a low and bulging moon
For ever and for ever.
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VI.
Up among the twigs it ran,Hopping, wheeling, full of graces;
'Mid the apples with the tan
Summering all their jocund faces;
When the monk, advancing near it,
Strove to touch it with his finger,
Scarcely seemed the bird to fear it,
Only, with a sidelong linger,
Hopped it on—a twig or two—
All its purples in a shiver,
Shaking like a ruffled river
In the storm of notes it blew.
VII.
All along the garden alleys,Past the dial on the lawn,
Followed he the happy sallies
Of this creature of the dawn,
Out, into the solitude
Of the summer-haunted wood.
VIII.
Out, amid the stirless hushOf the twilight shadows dun,
Glancing on, from bush to bush,
Glowing like a burning blush,
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This gleaming creature of the sun:—
On about three hundred paces
From the cloister-garden door,
Joined he in the wheeling races,
Through the copse and open spaces—
Sudden summer on their faces
As the branches backward bore—
Just about three hundred paces
From the little Gothic door,
Just three hundred, and no more!
IX.
When, behold! a slope of sunbeamsSmote athwart the inner gloom,
Steeping all the fluttering plumage
In a ruddier golden bloom;
And the little bird went winging
Showering music down, like rain,
Up the slope of sunbeams, singing,
And he saw it not again!
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IV. PART IV. THE RETURN.
I.
Young Urban, musing still, returned;His pious soul within him yearned,
As in the days of old, to pray;
But still he clutched his misery.
“A thousand long-drawn years!” quoth he,
“I cannot—though I wish it—see
How centuries can roll away,
Muffled in silent mystery,
Just as a night-watch hushed, or be,
Even to God, but as a day!”
II.
Wonder of wonders! as he spokeA vision on his senses broke:
A mighty abbey met his eyes,
Just like his own, but thrice its size;
And where, not half an hour before,
The little cloister-garden stood—
The garden with the Gothic door
That opened out upon the wood—
A huge cathedral rose on high,
Three-steepled;—every vanèd spire
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Great shining spokes of steadfast fire!
III.
About the Abbey all was hushed,Just as it was an hour before;
The corbels in the sunlight flushed,
The great east window glowed and blushed:—
He could not find the Gothic door:—
And where the sun-dial erst was seen
Rose a new wing above the wood,
And where the Abbot's house had been
A great refectory bulging stood,
And where the apples were, a flood
Of painted windows glimmered keen:—
And all the strange and mystic scene
Filled him with wonder where he stood.
IV.
All in amaze, he sought the door;And as he stretched his hand to knock,
Behold! a pursy Sacristan—
Whom he had never seen before—
Descending from the steeple-clock,
No sooner saw him, than he ran
Pale with affright;—his starting eyes
Both wide agoggle, twice their size!
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V.
He heard the noise of banging doors,Sounding up long corridors,
“Deo gratias,” quoth the Porter,
As he drew the bolt aside—
“Bene”—but ere it was uttered
On white lips the blessing died!
VI.
He sought the stately Chapter-hall,Where the Brethren were assembled,
And he whispered—“Strangers all—
What a change an hour may make!”
As he bent his figure tall
Every limb among them trembled,
Every eye was seen to quake,
Every hand was seen to shake,
And he unfolded his brief tale
Unto listeners hushed and pale.
VII.
But, ere the narrative was told,Through both his ears strange noises rung;
He felt his limbs were growing cold;
He shook with palsy, like the old;
He saw a silver beard had rolled
Down to his girdle, fold on fold—
The girdle where the keys were hung—
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Looked red with rust, and worn out too.
VIII.
When lo! from out a grated case,With tottering step, and blanched face,
A monk a written parchment bore,
Illumined all, and bright with gold
And costly crimson; and it told
How, just three hundred years before,
The young monk Urban first was missed,
And never had been heard of more!
IX.
Deep silence was there as he read—Silence—and wonder—and great dread.
Quoth the monk Urban, young no more,
Sighing deeply, “Ah I see!
Forest bird that sang to me
In the wondrous days of yore,
Mystic ages rolled away
As I watched thy happy play,
And the little Gothic door
Opened on eternity!
All my faith I owe to thee;
And, adoring God, I see
How a thousand years may be
Even as a single day!”
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All the Fathers, gathering near,
Hushed their very breath to hear
Every word that might be said:—
Quoth the Abbot shortly—“Brethren,
Back to prayers—he is dead!”
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