University of Virginia Library

ST. BERNARD.

The holy man sits chanting in his cell,
Bernard, than whom the golden gloriole
None fitlier circleth with its saintly spell.
“Venite exultemus!” All his soul
Makes music of the words, and harmonies
Well up unbidden as he sings, and roll
Echoes of harping from half-opened skies
Flooding the cloistral glooms with angel song,
Till the full strain of those sweet symphonies
Swells in his heart with eloquence too strong
For human speech, and o'er his organ keys
Flinging his quivering fingers, to prolong
That hymn celestial—by his side he sees
Him who is aye beside him, with a smile—
His own smile—on his lips, and words like these,
Hissing between them: “Aye, this hour awhile
“They have been listening—Roch and Flamian,
“Sigar and Blaize, and all the saintly file.
“Look at the grating there! When you began,
“Did you not mark the bald-pates? aye, and feel
“How the whole cloister hearkened as you ran
“So sweetly through the gamut? I appeal
“To your own conscience.” But the saint was mute,
And a strange horror crept from head to heel.
Then with himself as who had held dispute,
“I am a sinful man, O Lord!” he said,
“And viler in thine eyes than the dumb brute;
“Yea, guilt is with me even as I tread
“These holy heights of song: Be merciful,
“That I may worship thee without all dread!
“Get thee behind me, Sathanas! Thou dull
“Snake! not for thee did I begin my song,
“For thee will I not stint it.” And the full
Aisles heard the saint till morn chant loud and long.