Shifting Scenes and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

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 spoke
A 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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Flung up into the summer sky
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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And all the keys, though almost new,
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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Then he bowed his reverend head:—
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!”