Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | BOOK VII.
THE LEPROSY. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Sir Lancelot |  |
167
BOOK VII. THE LEPROSY.
169
In waking vision, through the fear of death
Engendered or the imposing calm of night,
What time the lively heavens were set with stars,
And the imperfect moon had sunk, I saw
Humanity, the multitudinous tribes
Of mortal men upon the hilly waste,
The spirit-peopled desert of the world,
Pining in obstinate sullenness apart,
Or in a fretful wandering seeking rest
Not unsuccessfully, and half consoled
Even by an irritable eloquence
Quick to disprove whatever hope might prompt.
And couched around them, as it were a ring
Of lions keeping guard, were marvellous Forms;
Some lay supine, and might be deemed asleep
But for the mobile gesture of their eyes,
While others ever and anon arose,
And pacing restlessly about in search
Of something which they found not, came again
Where they had couched before, and other some
Went in and out with noiseless step and swift
Among the quiet sentinels, and gazed
Upon the pallid stars, and seemed to move
As though they read an obvious mandate there.
Such scene it was as though in Arab wilds
One came by night upon a caravan
Of pilgrims bound for Mecca, with its groups
Of sleepers scattered o'er the moonlit sands;
And if it be the desert wind that stirs
A garment here and there, or if it be
The shudder that reveals some inward dream
We know not;—thus those wondrous Creatures lay.
No sound but their imperious breathing smote
The listening ear; and with infectious thrill,
Or like the soft continuous wake of wind,
There ran full oft a quick and angry start
This way and that across the voiceless herd,
Most like the breaches which a fearful dream
Makes in the slumber of a man now first
At sea, or who the day before hath climbed
A steep and ever seems to fall therefrom.
Engendered or the imposing calm of night,
What time the lively heavens were set with stars,
And the imperfect moon had sunk, I saw
Humanity, the multitudinous tribes
Of mortal men upon the hilly waste,
The spirit-peopled desert of the world,
Pining in obstinate sullenness apart,
Or in a fretful wandering seeking rest
Not unsuccessfully, and half consoled
Even by an irritable eloquence
Quick to disprove whatever hope might prompt.
And couched around them, as it were a ring
Of lions keeping guard, were marvellous Forms;
Some lay supine, and might be deemed asleep
But for the mobile gesture of their eyes,
While others ever and anon arose,
And pacing restlessly about in search
Of something which they found not, came again
Where they had couched before, and other some
Went in and out with noiseless step and swift
Among the quiet sentinels, and gazed
Upon the pallid stars, and seemed to move
As though they read an obvious mandate there.
Such scene it was as though in Arab wilds
170
Of pilgrims bound for Mecca, with its groups
Of sleepers scattered o'er the moonlit sands;
And if it be the desert wind that stirs
A garment here and there, or if it be
The shudder that reveals some inward dream
We know not;—thus those wondrous Creatures lay.
No sound but their imperious breathing smote
The listening ear; and with infectious thrill,
Or like the soft continuous wake of wind,
There ran full oft a quick and angry start
This way and that across the voiceless herd,
Most like the breaches which a fearful dream
Makes in the slumber of a man now first
At sea, or who the day before hath climbed
A steep and ever seems to fall therefrom.
Methought that by some tokens I perceived
Those creatures were the impersonated shapes
Of all the manifold sicknesses that prey
On our sin-tainted flesh; and mid them all
An Angel sat who made their wrath subserve
His ministries of love; or I will say
Of seeming love and mere eventual good,
If it be more according to the mind
Of Holy Church to deem the spirits, who wield
Sickness and sorrow, instruments of ill
Indulged in their base hatred of mankind,
And for the proof of men; yet sweeter far,
Sweeter, if lawful, the consoling hope
That to our Guardian Angel's hand the scourge
Hath been consigned; for, if terrestrial love
When deepest is least backward to inflict
Remedial pain, angelic hands might deal
The unsparing blows, and it were sweet to lie
So suffering, sweet for sinners to look back
On sorrow with that tearful yearning love
The memory of parental chastisement
Breeds in our after years. But shall faith dread
Even in Satan's hand to rest awhile?
The tempter's touch is but an outward thing;
And his repelled suggestions leave no stain
But what a penitential psalm, rehearsed
For love of Christ, may wholly cleanse away.
The grasp of sickness, if it be his arm
Which awfully encircles our poor limbs,
May, while we shudder, be full well endured,
In memory of that passage through the air
When Christ vouchsafed to entrust His spotless Flesh—
O love by us so miserably paid!—
To Satan's handling, while he bore the Lord
Unto the temple roof.
Those creatures were the impersonated shapes
Of all the manifold sicknesses that prey
On our sin-tainted flesh; and mid them all
An Angel sat who made their wrath subserve
His ministries of love; or I will say
Of seeming love and mere eventual good,
If it be more according to the mind
Of Holy Church to deem the spirits, who wield
Sickness and sorrow, instruments of ill
Indulged in their base hatred of mankind,
And for the proof of men; yet sweeter far,
Sweeter, if lawful, the consoling hope
That to our Guardian Angel's hand the scourge
Hath been consigned; for, if terrestrial love
When deepest is least backward to inflict
Remedial pain, angelic hands might deal
The unsparing blows, and it were sweet to lie
171
On sorrow with that tearful yearning love
The memory of parental chastisement
Breeds in our after years. But shall faith dread
Even in Satan's hand to rest awhile?
The tempter's touch is but an outward thing;
And his repelled suggestions leave no stain
But what a penitential psalm, rehearsed
For love of Christ, may wholly cleanse away.
The grasp of sickness, if it be his arm
Which awfully encircles our poor limbs,
May, while we shudder, be full well endured,
In memory of that passage through the air
When Christ vouchsafed to entrust His spotless Flesh—
O love by us so miserably paid!—
To Satan's handling, while he bore the Lord
Unto the temple roof.
From out the crowd
A white and voiceless creature, dull of eye
And silent-footed, was that night detached,
And on a direful ambassage sent forth
To the lone summit of the huge Black Combe.
There with envenomed kiss, as though it were
The bodiless contact of the infected wind,
And not a living spirit, it set a seal
Upon Sir Lancelot's forehead as he slept.
A white and voiceless creature, dull of eye
And silent-footed, was that night detached,
And on a direful ambassage sent forth
To the lone summit of the huge Black Combe.
There with envenomed kiss, as though it were
The bodiless contact of the infected wind,
And not a living spirit, it set a seal
Upon Sir Lancelot's forehead as he slept.
O Leprosy! in byegone days thou wert
An awful presence mid the sons of men,
A sign set up in merciful disdain
To overawe the soul, the like whereof,
A miracle to succour that weak faith
Which needs the arm of sight, we now possess,
Who, with deep self-reproach and muttered prayer,
Shrink as we daily see the homeless Jews,
A strange and cognizable people, cast
Their preternatural shadows in our streets.
But thou, dread Sickness! witness of the power,
And faithful image too, of human sin,
How art thou melted from among us, gone
Like unabiding snow, we know not when!
Earth hath a token less, and misseth thee
Even as the Dead Sea shore did one day miss
That single pillar of white salt that stood
Looking towards Sodom—one unlawful wish
Of base self-will most horribly fulfilled!
An awful presence mid the sons of men,
A sign set up in merciful disdain
To overawe the soul, the like whereof,
A miracle to succour that weak faith
Which needs the arm of sight, we now possess,
Who, with deep self-reproach and muttered prayer,
172
A strange and cognizable people, cast
Their preternatural shadows in our streets.
But thou, dread Sickness! witness of the power,
And faithful image too, of human sin,
How art thou melted from among us, gone
Like unabiding snow, we know not when!
Earth hath a token less, and misseth thee
Even as the Dead Sea shore did one day miss
That single pillar of white salt that stood
Looking towards Sodom—one unlawful wish
Of base self-will most horribly fulfilled!
This is no theme for song: the stricken man,
At length the manifest victim of disease,
Descending from his mountain, bent his steps
To Calder Abbey; there, his name concealed,
He sought the intercessions of the Church,
Her potent rites, and the vicinity
Of her great sacraments; for to his mind
His sickness plainest admonition was
Of God's compassionate will, that he should leave
The nurture of his mountain solitude,
And brace his soul mid Christian sights and sounds
To suffer now, and for the end prepare,
The end which he beheld was drawing nigh,
Like a bright sunset following on a storm.
At length the manifest victim of disease,
Descending from his mountain, bent his steps
To Calder Abbey; there, his name concealed,
He sought the intercessions of the Church,
Her potent rites, and the vicinity
Of her great sacraments; for to his mind
His sickness plainest admonition was
Of God's compassionate will, that he should leave
The nurture of his mountain solitude,
And brace his soul mid Christian sights and sounds
To suffer now, and for the end prepare,
The end which he beheld was drawing nigh,
Like a bright sunset following on a storm.
Was never consolation so confused
With awe-inspiring menace, or man's hopes
So wedded to man's fears, as then
In that old Liturgy of Lepers,—rite
Fearfully beautiful, within whose forms,
As in a piteous drama, were set forth
The woful fortunes of our fallen race,
Which yet we love because it is our own.
With awe-inspiring menace, or man's hopes
So wedded to man's fears, as then
In that old Liturgy of Lepers,—rite
Fearfully beautiful, within whose forms,
As in a piteous drama, were set forth
The woful fortunes of our fallen race,
Which yet we love because it is our own.
173
O faithless world! thou growest weak and old!
How hast thou sinnèd that the wrath of Heaven
Should have withdrawn this presence from thy fields,
This supernatural token of the power
Of Adam's one contagious sin? And thou
Dear Mother Church! with what affectionate rites
Didst thou consign the tainted to their cells,
Immured in dread tranquillity therein
With God and their chastising Angel, there
To evoke from penance those high gifts once found
Within the Font, and in the heats of youth
Bartered and lost through passion or mischance,
In their first fulness nowhere found again!
How hast thou sinnèd that the wrath of Heaven
Should have withdrawn this presence from thy fields,
This supernatural token of the power
Of Adam's one contagious sin? And thou
Dear Mother Church! with what affectionate rites
Didst thou consign the tainted to their cells,
Immured in dread tranquillity therein
With God and their chastising Angel, there
To evoke from penance those high gifts once found
Within the Font, and in the heats of youth
Bartered and lost through passion or mischance,
In their first fulness nowhere found again!
Haply the Angels, whose far-kenning sight
Can trace the world through all its tortuous ways
And its long discipline of ages, see
How it hath ever been throughout all time,
That what men deem improvement in the lot
Of humankind is but a putting off
Some power to be like Christ, the getting rid
First of one Thorn and then another, so
Despoiling and diminishing the Crown
Which only gives the right to rule in Heaven.
Where are the daily rudenesses of life,
The imperfect satisfaction of our needs,
The keen discomforts of our mortal state,
The hardships which annealed the men of old,
The sense of want which every hour brought home
To sinful man? Are they not put aside,
So far as may be, with unblest success,
Thanks to officious science! as the lot
Of monks and of poor men, kept at arm's length
By all the effeminate appliances
Of our luxurious skill? And we perchance
Are either venturous or unwise, when we
Regret the growing softness of the times,
As being ourselves effeminate, afraid
To give ourselves to God, or bravely dare
The ancient measures of saint's love. Should we
Without these comforts summon up the heart
To do the little that we do for God,
Or persevere in those few puny acts
Which we esteem so great? What wonder then
That if in purple and fine linen swathed,
The world should play the part of Dives more
And more each passing age, and less affect
That Christ-like sorrow which the Angels seek
To penetrate with their enamoured gaze,
And, were they not so calm, might envy too
Through wish to embrace the self-same life as Christ,
And have their acts identified with His,
The exclusive privilege of Catholic Saints,—
What wonder if the jealous wrath of Heaven
Should silently withdraw neglected ills,
As slighted sacraments, which men no more
Should have the liberty to scorn! The plague,
Which recognized the sacred touch of kings,
Vanished from earth when kingly hands were held
Sacred no longer; for the world brooked not
The presence of a supernatural thing;
And so that token went, leaving the State
Weakened, yet of its weakness unaware,
Proud of the open sea, and grand career,
And with the sunshine drunk, yet full of taunts
Gainst Peter's bark that had convoyed it there.
Ah! silly kings will learn, but learn like kings,
Too late to profit by the lesson taught,
That churchless states obey not royal helms,
And that St. Peter's keys were light as air
Compared with Revolution's heavy hand.
O Sovereign People! whither wilt thou steer
These old historic states of Christendom?
Hast thou a chart, are soundings ascertained,
Did ever true discoverer report
Safe harbours o'er that wild and stormy sea?
Or shall we one day, drifting on our wreck,
Despondingly believe what some have said,
Which would be almost madness were it true,—
The world's improvemént is the Christian's loss?
Can trace the world through all its tortuous ways
And its long discipline of ages, see
How it hath ever been throughout all time,
That what men deem improvement in the lot
Of humankind is but a putting off
Some power to be like Christ, the getting rid
First of one Thorn and then another, so
Despoiling and diminishing the Crown
Which only gives the right to rule in Heaven.
Where are the daily rudenesses of life,
The imperfect satisfaction of our needs,
The keen discomforts of our mortal state,
The hardships which annealed the men of old,
The sense of want which every hour brought home
To sinful man? Are they not put aside,
So far as may be, with unblest success,
Thanks to officious science! as the lot
Of monks and of poor men, kept at arm's length
By all the effeminate appliances
Of our luxurious skill? And we perchance
174
Regret the growing softness of the times,
As being ourselves effeminate, afraid
To give ourselves to God, or bravely dare
The ancient measures of saint's love. Should we
Without these comforts summon up the heart
To do the little that we do for God,
Or persevere in those few puny acts
Which we esteem so great? What wonder then
That if in purple and fine linen swathed,
The world should play the part of Dives more
And more each passing age, and less affect
That Christ-like sorrow which the Angels seek
To penetrate with their enamoured gaze,
And, were they not so calm, might envy too
Through wish to embrace the self-same life as Christ,
And have their acts identified with His,
The exclusive privilege of Catholic Saints,—
What wonder if the jealous wrath of Heaven
Should silently withdraw neglected ills,
As slighted sacraments, which men no more
Should have the liberty to scorn! The plague,
Which recognized the sacred touch of kings,
Vanished from earth when kingly hands were held
Sacred no longer; for the world brooked not
The presence of a supernatural thing;
And so that token went, leaving the State
Weakened, yet of its weakness unaware,
Proud of the open sea, and grand career,
And with the sunshine drunk, yet full of taunts
Gainst Peter's bark that had convoyed it there.
Ah! silly kings will learn, but learn like kings,
Too late to profit by the lesson taught,
That churchless states obey not royal helms,
175
Compared with Revolution's heavy hand.
O Sovereign People! whither wilt thou steer
These old historic states of Christendom?
Hast thou a chart, are soundings ascertained,
Did ever true discoverer report
Safe harbours o'er that wild and stormy sea?
Or shall we one day, drifting on our wreck,
Despondingly believe what some have said,
Which would be almost madness were it true,—
The world's improvemént is the Christian's loss?
So long then as the favoured earth possessed
One Corporal Work of Mercy more than now,
The tending of the Lepers, Holy Church,
Mindful how oft our Saviour had vouchsafed
To appear in leprous guise unto the Saints,
Drew into one her most consoling acts,
With bland denunciations intermixed.
She took the Leper from the affrighted world,
Sprinkled her holy water on his brow,
Entitling him dear Victim of our God,
And gifted him with Gloves, with Knife, with Lamp,
Trumpet to hold communion with his kind,
Pannier for alms, and Pitcher for the wells,
Symbolic gifts whose meaning could sustain
A patient temper; thence unto his cell,
The abbey cross borne to the threshold first,
Was he consigned with prayer, and so exiled
From that false world whose joys delude the soul,
At Easter only suffered to emerge,
For not the tombs that day could keep their dead.
And for some ages when the Leper died,
So solemn was the love men bore to him
And almost reverence for his mystic woe,
That Mass was chanted for him in the Church
(By after Councils solemnly refused)
As for a true Confessor of the Faith,
And witness of some supernatural thing.
One Corporal Work of Mercy more than now,
The tending of the Lepers, Holy Church,
Mindful how oft our Saviour had vouchsafed
To appear in leprous guise unto the Saints,
Drew into one her most consoling acts,
With bland denunciations intermixed.
She took the Leper from the affrighted world,
Sprinkled her holy water on his brow,
Entitling him dear Victim of our God,
And gifted him with Gloves, with Knife, with Lamp,
Trumpet to hold communion with his kind,
Pannier for alms, and Pitcher for the wells,
Symbolic gifts whose meaning could sustain
A patient temper; thence unto his cell,
The abbey cross borne to the threshold first,
Was he consigned with prayer, and so exiled
From that false world whose joys delude the soul,
At Easter only suffered to emerge,
For not the tombs that day could keep their dead.
And for some ages when the Leper died,
So solemn was the love men bore to him
And almost reverence for his mystic woe,
176
(By after Councils solemnly refused)
As for a true Confessor of the Faith,
And witness of some supernatural thing.
Thus, in symbolic vestments all arrayed,
Within a cell Sir Lancelot was immured
What time, the chanted compline o'er, the star
Of peaceful eve with uncontested right
Vicegerent was for her still absent queen,
And with the help of lingering sunset shed
A dusky brightness o'er the dewy woods.
Within a cell Sir Lancelot was immured
What time, the chanted compline o'er, the star
Of peaceful eve with uncontested right
Vicegerent was for her still absent queen,
And with the help of lingering sunset shed
A dusky brightness o'er the dewy woods.
How beautiful that night was Calder Vale!
The golden moon with shadowy splendor lent
A depth of mottled foliage to the boughs
Still leafless, and the abbey's leaden roofs
In the soft flashing beams were multiplied
An hundredfold, and on the shining meads
The whiteness of the frosty grass appeared
A portion of the moonlight, while the stream,
With its occasional broken water lit
With an uncertain scattered brightness, dived
Through the dark grove like an irregular band
Of men with lanterns in a midnight wood,
Threading their way together or dispersed.
O Moon! thy light is like the honied tongue
Of one who tells false parables to gild
Or prompt a dubious act: when morning comes
How changed will all that sunken vale appear!
The golden moon with shadowy splendor lent
A depth of mottled foliage to the boughs
Still leafless, and the abbey's leaden roofs
In the soft flashing beams were multiplied
An hundredfold, and on the shining meads
The whiteness of the frosty grass appeared
A portion of the moonlight, while the stream,
With its occasional broken water lit
With an uncertain scattered brightness, dived
Through the dark grove like an irregular band
Of men with lanterns in a midnight wood,
Threading their way together or dispersed.
O Moon! thy light is like the honied tongue
Of one who tells false parables to gild
Or prompt a dubious act: when morning comes
How changed will all that sunken vale appear!
There is no image of unbroken peace
Which is not gathered now around the spot
Where so much suffering dwells, so much disease
Of mind, and labour of remorseful thoughts
Within that penitential House; and yet
Misdeem not thou the quiet beauty shed
Upon this stern abode; for it is not
A mockery of nature, but sets forth
In parables to disobedient man
How lovely are the ancient offices
Which these obedient elements fulfil,—
How sweet the travail of unbroken laws,
Thus imaging that pure tranquillity,
Which reigns where'er the Will of God is done.
The beasts, whose shadows, indistinct and dark,
Spot yon illumined field, lie down in peace,
If lower, yet more perfect than the peace
Which man attains: for instinct unto them
Is a deep law that hath more promptitude
To act, than reason which is ever set
'Twixt doubtful contraries; so unto man
Hath God, beside his reason, deigned to give
The instinct of obedience, and for this
With merciful acceptance He vouchsafes
To take, what it is misery to withhold,
The intelligent surrender of our wills
And ways to His.
Which is not gathered now around the spot
Where so much suffering dwells, so much disease
Of mind, and labour of remorseful thoughts
Within that penitential House; and yet
Misdeem not thou the quiet beauty shed
177
A mockery of nature, but sets forth
In parables to disobedient man
How lovely are the ancient offices
Which these obedient elements fulfil,—
How sweet the travail of unbroken laws,
Thus imaging that pure tranquillity,
Which reigns where'er the Will of God is done.
The beasts, whose shadows, indistinct and dark,
Spot yon illumined field, lie down in peace,
If lower, yet more perfect than the peace
Which man attains: for instinct unto them
Is a deep law that hath more promptitude
To act, than reason which is ever set
'Twixt doubtful contraries; so unto man
Hath God, beside his reason, deigned to give
The instinct of obedience, and for this
With merciful acceptance He vouchsafes
To take, what it is misery to withhold,
The intelligent surrender of our wills
And ways to His.
In many a secret cell
Within that convent doubtless may reside
A man, whose wrecked and shattered life is cast
On this seclusion after thoughtless years
Of worshipping self-will, who, haply freed
From the more heinous acts of mortal sin,
Hath so disturbed his inward faculties,
That when grace found him, and he turned to seek
The oracles of conscience, no response
Came from the desecrated shrine; his soul,
Eyeless and voiceless both, was overcome
With that intoxication which ensues
On long self-worship, and within his heart
Mercy must intervene to plant afresh
The finer sense of right and wrong. Ah me!
What a blind fight is life to such a man!
Hating to be alone, yet every day
Plunging more deeply into solitude,
By frequent transit into separate spheres
Of action self-imposed; craving too much
For sympathy, yet ever out at sea,
Where they who labour at appointed tasks
At best can give him but a distant hail;
Accumulating knowledge so disjoined
From honest practice, that it soon becomes
A load that overwhelms his cheerfulness;
Toiling without a blessing through neglect
Of those less lofty toils which God ordained;
Too covetous of home, yet finding none
For his unfixed affections. Wretched man!
His very nature is a law which blights
The face of home, and yet he knows it not.
How is he like the sea-birds that by night
Sleep on the dull dark ocean, and by day,
Float on the sunny billows, and they see
Where'er they go the self-same images,
The sun's white glory far within the deep,
And the blue vale of water 'twixt the waves,
Ever the same, yet ever changed; no mark,
No sign whereon to fix a local love,
No home to be remembered for its peace,
No shapely bough well known and best beloved
Within the crowded forest. Hence it is
They carol not, but wail from off the deep,
In piteous accents of impatient grief,
And some, like spirits hardened by despair,
Joy in the savage tempest;—so with him—
The home, which he so fretfully pursues,
Glides from beneath him, and he sinks at last
Beneath the direst burden man can bear,
That constant uniformity of change,
Wherein consists the worship of Self-Will.
Within that convent doubtless may reside
A man, whose wrecked and shattered life is cast
On this seclusion after thoughtless years
Of worshipping self-will, who, haply freed
From the more heinous acts of mortal sin,
Hath so disturbed his inward faculties,
That when grace found him, and he turned to seek
The oracles of conscience, no response
Came from the desecrated shrine; his soul,
Eyeless and voiceless both, was overcome
With that intoxication which ensues
On long self-worship, and within his heart
178
The finer sense of right and wrong. Ah me!
What a blind fight is life to such a man!
Hating to be alone, yet every day
Plunging more deeply into solitude,
By frequent transit into separate spheres
Of action self-imposed; craving too much
For sympathy, yet ever out at sea,
Where they who labour at appointed tasks
At best can give him but a distant hail;
Accumulating knowledge so disjoined
From honest practice, that it soon becomes
A load that overwhelms his cheerfulness;
Toiling without a blessing through neglect
Of those less lofty toils which God ordained;
Too covetous of home, yet finding none
For his unfixed affections. Wretched man!
His very nature is a law which blights
The face of home, and yet he knows it not.
How is he like the sea-birds that by night
Sleep on the dull dark ocean, and by day,
Float on the sunny billows, and they see
Where'er they go the self-same images,
The sun's white glory far within the deep,
And the blue vale of water 'twixt the waves,
Ever the same, yet ever changed; no mark,
No sign whereon to fix a local love,
No home to be remembered for its peace,
No shapely bough well known and best beloved
Within the crowded forest. Hence it is
They carol not, but wail from off the deep,
In piteous accents of impatient grief,
And some, like spirits hardened by despair,
Joy in the savage tempest;—so with him—
179
Glides from beneath him, and he sinks at last
Beneath the direst burden man can bear,
That constant uniformity of change,
Wherein consists the worship of Self-Will.
This moonlit earth is not the earth which man
Tills from the dawn unto the setting sun:
And neither is the moonlit world of joy,
Feasting, and poetry, the real world
Where man achieves or misses of his crown.
There is a second world behind the veil,
More nigh to God, a more mysterious place,
More thickly peopled with great deeds, more full
Of spiritual Presences,—the world
Of sorrow, sickness, and of secret grief,
Where life, ejected from the outward throng,
Dwells in the quiet vestibule of death.
Tills from the dawn unto the setting sun:
And neither is the moonlit world of joy,
Feasting, and poetry, the real world
Where man achieves or misses of his crown.
There is a second world behind the veil,
More nigh to God, a more mysterious place,
More thickly peopled with great deeds, more full
Of spiritual Presences,—the world
Of sorrow, sickness, and of secret grief,
Where life, ejected from the outward throng,
Dwells in the quiet vestibule of death.
Look at yon summer city on the shore
Of that Italian lake; the moon is up,
And, mingling strangely with her quiet beams,
The incessant lightning of the voiceless clouds
Clothes with white fire the hills and tremulous lake.
And there is music on the quay, and sounds
Of singers on the water far away;
And youth is moving gaily on the banks,
Where age is sitting and appears to have
A deeper-seated joy, and in the port
The lights from out the open windows cast
Thin pillared shadows in the rippling deep,
And barks with gaudy flags shoot up and down;
And the cool freedom of the night appears
To be sufficient of itself to cause
This universal mirth; and mid it all,
The song, the movement, and the shooting barks,
And the pale lightning flapping o'er the hills,
How silent stands yon solemn mountain tower
Behind the city, borrowing from the moon
Darkness, not light, and frowning on the scene
As though it were a monitory thing
Appointed to restrain men's thoughts. And yet
Behind the face of this enjoyment lurks
Another world, which teaches us that life
Is not the dream of one short summer-night
Mid the moon's visionary landscapes; no!
Death is in the city, sickness, and sin,
Suffering, remorse, despair, the unheeded priest.
Haply the unknown passage of a soul
Is being accomplished at this hour, for oft
Amid the multitudinous poor death comes
And finds his victims lonely; want, neglect,
And hunger, being their only retinue:
With these stern nurses round them they confront
Their last great act, as utterly alone
As the sick beasts that lay them down to die
Beneath the pressure of their Maker's Will,
In the deep noon mid Afric's sunless woods,
Or the damp lairs of Asiatic caves.
Of that Italian lake; the moon is up,
And, mingling strangely with her quiet beams,
The incessant lightning of the voiceless clouds
Clothes with white fire the hills and tremulous lake.
And there is music on the quay, and sounds
Of singers on the water far away;
And youth is moving gaily on the banks,
Where age is sitting and appears to have
A deeper-seated joy, and in the port
The lights from out the open windows cast
Thin pillared shadows in the rippling deep,
And barks with gaudy flags shoot up and down;
And the cool freedom of the night appears
To be sufficient of itself to cause
This universal mirth; and mid it all,
The song, the movement, and the shooting barks,
180
How silent stands yon solemn mountain tower
Behind the city, borrowing from the moon
Darkness, not light, and frowning on the scene
As though it were a monitory thing
Appointed to restrain men's thoughts. And yet
Behind the face of this enjoyment lurks
Another world, which teaches us that life
Is not the dream of one short summer-night
Mid the moon's visionary landscapes; no!
Death is in the city, sickness, and sin,
Suffering, remorse, despair, the unheeded priest.
Haply the unknown passage of a soul
Is being accomplished at this hour, for oft
Amid the multitudinous poor death comes
And finds his victims lonely; want, neglect,
And hunger, being their only retinue:
With these stern nurses round them they confront
Their last great act, as utterly alone
As the sick beasts that lay them down to die
Beneath the pressure of their Maker's Will,
In the deep noon mid Afric's sunless woods,
Or the damp lairs of Asiatic caves.
Sickness and Death! Ye twin beneficent Powers!
I in the freshness of my youth am bold
To hail you as benignant spirits ordained
To lead my soul to Heaven! Ye do I hail
Ere ye have come, and practising my thoughts,
As best I may, to look you in the face,
Aye, to confront your dreadest aspect, still
Would I implore with trembling self-distrust,
Won from preceding falls, the gracious Aid,
That in your actual presence can bestow
A manly peace, which shall not make ashamed
This hardihood of words. For manifold
And dire, O Sickness! are the crucibles,
Wherein thy torturing alchemy essays
The spirit of man; and they who sought for gold
In molten stones, vain mortals! reaped a field
Hardly more profitless, great Power! than thine.
I in the freshness of my youth am bold
To hail you as benignant spirits ordained
To lead my soul to Heaven! Ye do I hail
Ere ye have come, and practising my thoughts,
As best I may, to look you in the face,
Aye, to confront your dreadest aspect, still
Would I implore with trembling self-distrust,
Won from preceding falls, the gracious Aid,
That in your actual presence can bestow
A manly peace, which shall not make ashamed
181
And dire, O Sickness! are the crucibles,
Wherein thy torturing alchemy essays
The spirit of man; and they who sought for gold
In molten stones, vain mortals! reaped a field
Hardly more profitless, great Power! than thine.
Now there are sicknesses which in a day,
And with our bodily strength all unimpaired
And love of life unquenched, would have us greet
Death, as we would an unexpected guest;
These are too fierce. Then there are slow, slow fires
Which burn the patience of a man, and dry
His prayers, and give him no vicissitude
Of suffering, wearing off that novelty
Which made him feel disease a sacred thing;
These the Saints have. And other ills there are,
Winning no sympathy, as not believed,
Lurking like serpents in some secret place
Within the body, stinging out of reach;
And these are fearful: for complaint is met
With chilling admonition, or received
With that half credence which is worse to bear,
And patience undergoes the martyrdom
Of passing for impatience. O 'tis meet
That they who tend the sick should have more faith
In them, than in the art which ill conceals
Its little power o'er man's mysterious frame!
And, with the rest, there are some sicknesses
Which are the obvious consequence of sin;
Vain scourges do they seem, which are by most
With a hard heathen manliness endured,
Whose strength is in false pride that would prefer
To reap the harvest it hath sown itself,
Than suffer by the simple Will of God.
And, lastly, in that there are stubborn men
To whom indignity is ten times worse
Than torment, there are other sicknesses,
Which shame the sufferers; these are hard to bear,
And they fall chiefly on the proud. But all
Have one beneficent unity, one source
Deep in the fountain of God's love, and preach
One soothing doctrine to the docile heart:—
Sufferings are Gifts, a Judgment is a Grace,
As short of that One Judgment which alone
Tries not, and purges not, but only seals!
And with our bodily strength all unimpaired
And love of life unquenched, would have us greet
Death, as we would an unexpected guest;
These are too fierce. Then there are slow, slow fires
Which burn the patience of a man, and dry
His prayers, and give him no vicissitude
Of suffering, wearing off that novelty
Which made him feel disease a sacred thing;
These the Saints have. And other ills there are,
Winning no sympathy, as not believed,
Lurking like serpents in some secret place
Within the body, stinging out of reach;
And these are fearful: for complaint is met
With chilling admonition, or received
With that half credence which is worse to bear,
And patience undergoes the martyrdom
Of passing for impatience. O 'tis meet
That they who tend the sick should have more faith
In them, than in the art which ill conceals
Its little power o'er man's mysterious frame!
And, with the rest, there are some sicknesses
Which are the obvious consequence of sin;
Vain scourges do they seem, which are by most
With a hard heathen manliness endured,
Whose strength is in false pride that would prefer
To reap the harvest it hath sown itself,
Than suffer by the simple Will of God.
182
To whom indignity is ten times worse
Than torment, there are other sicknesses,
Which shame the sufferers; these are hard to bear,
And they fall chiefly on the proud. But all
Have one beneficent unity, one source
Deep in the fountain of God's love, and preach
One soothing doctrine to the docile heart:—
Sufferings are Gifts, a Judgment is a Grace,
As short of that One Judgment which alone
Tries not, and purges not, but only seals!
And Thee, most mortal of all mortal things,
Thee would I hail, O Death! as being the gate
Which I in search of Heaven shall enter. Thou,
The commonest of daily acts, art not
Common to each, but happenest only once.
Thou wert a tyrant, for weak nature knew
No means to bring thine overwhelming power
Within the grasp of habit, and she wept
For want of that poor knowledge how to die.
This science hath been granted to her tears:
From meanest self-denials we extract
A power beyond the compass of thy strength;
For faith dies daily with her Lord, and so
By this sweet mystery art thou now dethroned.
O men! we are but actors all our lives;
We must be real once, even at the hour
When we lie down to die, and is not this
A consolation, while the light it sheds
Unteaches us the love of self-deceit?
Thee would I hail, O Death! as being the gate
Which I in search of Heaven shall enter. Thou,
The commonest of daily acts, art not
Common to each, but happenest only once.
Thou wert a tyrant, for weak nature knew
No means to bring thine overwhelming power
Within the grasp of habit, and she wept
For want of that poor knowledge how to die.
This science hath been granted to her tears:
From meanest self-denials we extract
A power beyond the compass of thy strength;
For faith dies daily with her Lord, and so
By this sweet mystery art thou now dethroned.
O men! we are but actors all our lives;
We must be real once, even at the hour
When we lie down to die, and is not this
A consolation, while the light it sheds
Unteaches us the love of self-deceit?
All hail, Ye Kindred Powers! Pass on, pass on
Across Time's bounded realm, to do a work
More lasting than yourselves, to sanctify
The Elect of God! And Thou, O Tyrant Time,
Art Thou not weary, Despot! flapping thus
Thy unwieldy wings across the suffering world,
Like a huge land-bird lost upon the ocean;
For such the Endless Ages are to Thee?
What though Thou rollest o'er the tribes of men
Most like a hurrying storm, the Angel waits
Who knows thy sentence and hath learned the words
By heart, and thy tremendous frame can cast
No shadow on the Infinite Mind of God,
Nor yet impair the least of His Decrees.
Across Time's bounded realm, to do a work
More lasting than yourselves, to sanctify
The Elect of God! And Thou, O Tyrant Time,
183
Thy unwieldy wings across the suffering world,
Like a huge land-bird lost upon the ocean;
For such the Endless Ages are to Thee?
What though Thou rollest o'er the tribes of men
Most like a hurrying storm, the Angel waits
Who knows thy sentence and hath learned the words
By heart, and thy tremendous frame can cast
No shadow on the Infinite Mind of God,
Nor yet impair the least of His Decrees.
Such are our tyrants, Fellow Men! and such
Our ancient gods. O let us claim the rights
Of that celestial servitude which makes
These powers our daily vassals; let us choose
That perfect liberty which none enjoy,
But those whose will is with the Will of God,
And is, through Faith and Hope, enthralled by Love!
Our ancient gods. O let us claim the rights
Of that celestial servitude which makes
These powers our daily vassals; let us choose
That perfect liberty which none enjoy,
But those whose will is with the Will of God,
And is, through Faith and Hope, enthralled by Love!
Such were the Presences and Powers that filled
That world, amid whose shadowy regions now
Sir Lancelot passed, a peopled loneliness,
Peopled yet not with men, as earth might seem
To outcast Cain, but conscious to himself
Of sweet alliances that hopeless man
Knew not; yet even to the hermit Knight
There was a deepening of his solitude,
Which he encountered not without alarm.
Truly there is a mute companionship
Between our animal strength and living soul,
Which, like the intercourse a lonely man
Oft seeks with some inferior creature, serves
More ends than we opine, until disease
Hath parted them, and drained the subsidy
Of cheerful spirits which from our bodily power
Flow in upon the mind. In Troutbeck Vale,
And on the misty summit of Black Combe,
The features of the open solitude had grown
Familiar to him; yet he now perceived
That in imprisonment, the narrowed range
Of sense and motion, and the broken trust
In his own strength, there was a loneliness,
Which, till it hath begun to sanctify,
Is terrible oppression.
That world, amid whose shadowy regions now
Sir Lancelot passed, a peopled loneliness,
Peopled yet not with men, as earth might seem
To outcast Cain, but conscious to himself
Of sweet alliances that hopeless man
Knew not; yet even to the hermit Knight
There was a deepening of his solitude,
Which he encountered not without alarm.
Truly there is a mute companionship
Between our animal strength and living soul,
Which, like the intercourse a lonely man
Oft seeks with some inferior creature, serves
More ends than we opine, until disease
Hath parted them, and drained the subsidy
Of cheerful spirits which from our bodily power
Flow in upon the mind. In Troutbeck Vale,
184
The features of the open solitude had grown
Familiar to him; yet he now perceived
That in imprisonment, the narrowed range
Of sense and motion, and the broken trust
In his own strength, there was a loneliness,
Which, till it hath begun to sanctify,
Is terrible oppression.
Ah! how great
To one who bears impatiently the load
Of his unuttered thoughts, his privacy
Beyond the active circles of the world,
Like an untravelled frontier, placed—how great
The consolation, and the inward strength
How wonderful, which he in secret draws
From deep reflection on the lonely Life
Our Lord vouchsafed to lead! If he be rich,
And hath with bootless envy oft desired
That poverty ennobled by the choice
Of God Himself,—if he be strong in health,
And, further than the common griefs of life,
Lacks sorrow which might make him like his Lord,—
If the world love him, praise him, and he pines
For outward chastisement to certify
His heavenly sonship,—let him be alone,
Let him be solitary, not from choice,
The baseness of a lettered ease, or wish
To abstract himself from that unequal strife
In which the bad keep down the good,—and there
The Saviour's Life is imaged on his own.
There is his Cross, a burden sanctified
With special and exact endurance, there
A treasure of perfection, which the Saints,
Cast on the social happiness of life,
Might envy, for its silence and its pains.
To one who bears impatiently the load
Of his unuttered thoughts, his privacy
Beyond the active circles of the world,
Like an untravelled frontier, placed—how great
The consolation, and the inward strength
How wonderful, which he in secret draws
From deep reflection on the lonely Life
Our Lord vouchsafed to lead! If he be rich,
And hath with bootless envy oft desired
That poverty ennobled by the choice
Of God Himself,—if he be strong in health,
And, further than the common griefs of life,
Lacks sorrow which might make him like his Lord,—
If the world love him, praise him, and he pines
For outward chastisement to certify
His heavenly sonship,—let him be alone,
Let him be solitary, not from choice,
The baseness of a lettered ease, or wish
To abstract himself from that unequal strife
In which the bad keep down the good,—and there
The Saviour's Life is imaged on his own.
There is his Cross, a burden sanctified
With special and exact endurance, there
A treasure of perfection, which the Saints,
Cast on the social happiness of life,
185
How lonely was the Infancy of Christ,
Beset by thoughts which rose into a sphere
Beyond the reach of mortal sympathy,
And burdened with the foresight of the Cross,
And vision of that whole amount of sin
Whose price He came to pay! How lonely too
His untold Youth in Joseph's humble house,
And sordid occupations! And His Life,
Beginning in the desert with the dark
And fallen angel for companion, seems
More and more lonely still, because He knew
What was in man, and trusted not Himself.
So that the true Creator of the world,
Environed with the obscurity of flesh,
(O that a leper such as I should dare
To speak the words!) moved on the earth He made
A Homeless Pilgrim mid the countless homes
Of men, and lairs of beasts, and nests of birds,
And rooted flowers which He Himself had clothed,—
Moved on the earth as excommunicate
From His own sweet creation, for the love
He bore to us, and to a low estate!
Amid His Twelve was one betrayer found,
Another to deny Him, and the rest
To flee His hour of need, and on the Cross,
While Mary's presence added to His grief
More than it soothed, His utter loneliness
Reached its unspeakable accomplishment,
When from the depths of anguish He complained,
That He, who was erewhile disowned of man,
Was left of God! and bowing then His Head
To that reluctant foe, which had withheld
Its hand through agonies enough to quench
Another's life long since, He gave consent,
And Death, most awful thought! drew nigh the Cross,
And smote, last act of power! the Son of God.
And through His desolate Life we must believe,
And His protracted Passion most of all,
That to His Human Nature the Divine
Auxiliar proved, to lessen not the weight
Of untold griefs, but as a prop to give
To human flesh a superhuman power
To suffer, and to live a dying life,
Unsuccoured by the prompt relief of death.
Beset by thoughts which rose into a sphere
Beyond the reach of mortal sympathy,
And burdened with the foresight of the Cross,
And vision of that whole amount of sin
Whose price He came to pay! How lonely too
His untold Youth in Joseph's humble house,
And sordid occupations! And His Life,
Beginning in the desert with the dark
And fallen angel for companion, seems
More and more lonely still, because He knew
What was in man, and trusted not Himself.
So that the true Creator of the world,
Environed with the obscurity of flesh,
(O that a leper such as I should dare
To speak the words!) moved on the earth He made
A Homeless Pilgrim mid the countless homes
Of men, and lairs of beasts, and nests of birds,
And rooted flowers which He Himself had clothed,—
Moved on the earth as excommunicate
From His own sweet creation, for the love
He bore to us, and to a low estate!
Amid His Twelve was one betrayer found,
Another to deny Him, and the rest
To flee His hour of need, and on the Cross,
While Mary's presence added to His grief
More than it soothed, His utter loneliness
Reached its unspeakable accomplishment,
When from the depths of anguish He complained,
That He, who was erewhile disowned of man,
Was left of God! and bowing then His Head
To that reluctant foe, which had withheld
Its hand through agonies enough to quench
186
And Death, most awful thought! drew nigh the Cross,
And smote, last act of power! the Son of God.
And through His desolate Life we must believe,
And His protracted Passion most of all,
That to His Human Nature the Divine
Auxiliar proved, to lessen not the weight
Of untold griefs, but as a prop to give
To human flesh a superhuman power
To suffer, and to live a dying life,
Unsuccoured by the prompt relief of death.
Thus did Sir Lancelot muse, till he was cheered,
To think that Desolation had been borne,
And sanctified, and through its whole extent
Traversed with scrupulous survey by our Lord,
Until it had become a Holy Land:—
The very thought is wine unto the sick!
He was in want of soothing truths, more want
Than we can haply measure, who too much
Feed on the balsams of the Cross, ere yet
The gall hath done its work; for in those times,
Those days of high attainments, less proclaimed,
Because with less authentic warrant proved,
Were Saint Alphonso's charitable rules,
Whose safe facility he bade the world
Enjoy, and yet denied it to himself.
To think that Desolation had been borne,
And sanctified, and through its whole extent
Traversed with scrupulous survey by our Lord,
Until it had become a Holy Land:—
The very thought is wine unto the sick!
He was in want of soothing truths, more want
Than we can haply measure, who too much
Feed on the balsams of the Cross, ere yet
The gall hath done its work; for in those times,
Those days of high attainments, less proclaimed,
Because with less authentic warrant proved,
Were Saint Alphonso's charitable rules,
Whose safe facility he bade the world
Enjoy, and yet denied it to himself.
Months passed away with him, while sickness wrought
Her silent transformations: from above
She seemed to drop, and on her difficult field
Toiled like a patient Angel, and observed
A beautiful order in her separate acts.
For first she cleared it of the unsightly shades
Of self-deceit, which baffle even the eye
Of conscience when it strives to penetrate;
Then the rank herbage stripped, and laid all bare
The unlovely surface and discoloured soil,
And thus she killed self-trust: then delving deep,
With general and confused commotion shook
And troubled all the ground, both far and near,
And singled out the dry insidious stones
Which lure the fertile moisture to themselves,
And traced with special care the arid roots
Of discontinued sins, which now deprived
Themselves of power to sprout, yet intercept
The roots of virtuous plants as they descend;
Thus Self was wholly killed, a real death
Accomplished by the severing of the Soul
From the sick Body, its chief aid in guilt.
The Body's outward hindrance set aside,
And Sin's mysterious coverts now disclosed,
She, casting her gross implements away,
Leaped in the grave, and settling fast on Sin,
Transformed herself into a cleansing fire,
Which searched the pestilence in its secret home,
And with accumulated pains burnt out
The poisonous substance, whose infectious power
Had scorched the dew-damped earth: this second Act,
Which followed on the painful death of Self,
Effected by increase of torture, seemed
An Act of love, to its dread office nerved
By its own depth, by no vindictive ends
Suggested, but unmixed beneficence,
Mysteriously inventive to avoid
A fruitless toil; and this, as after Death,
The mystical and inward Death of Self,
Might in the baths of Purgatory find
An apt resemblance, whereof some men speak
As of an ultimate baptism of the soul.
Her silent transformations: from above
She seemed to drop, and on her difficult field
Toiled like a patient Angel, and observed
A beautiful order in her separate acts.
For first she cleared it of the unsightly shades
187
Of conscience when it strives to penetrate;
Then the rank herbage stripped, and laid all bare
The unlovely surface and discoloured soil,
And thus she killed self-trust: then delving deep,
With general and confused commotion shook
And troubled all the ground, both far and near,
And singled out the dry insidious stones
Which lure the fertile moisture to themselves,
And traced with special care the arid roots
Of discontinued sins, which now deprived
Themselves of power to sprout, yet intercept
The roots of virtuous plants as they descend;
Thus Self was wholly killed, a real death
Accomplished by the severing of the Soul
From the sick Body, its chief aid in guilt.
The Body's outward hindrance set aside,
And Sin's mysterious coverts now disclosed,
She, casting her gross implements away,
Leaped in the grave, and settling fast on Sin,
Transformed herself into a cleansing fire,
Which searched the pestilence in its secret home,
And with accumulated pains burnt out
The poisonous substance, whose infectious power
Had scorched the dew-damped earth: this second Act,
Which followed on the painful death of Self,
Effected by increase of torture, seemed
An Act of love, to its dread office nerved
By its own depth, by no vindictive ends
Suggested, but unmixed beneficence,
Mysteriously inventive to avoid
A fruitless toil; and this, as after Death,
The mystical and inward Death of Self,
188
An apt resemblance, whereof some men speak
As of an ultimate baptism of the soul.
Many there are who grievously misdeem
The unfathomable ends of Corporal Pain,
And its remedial powers: and thus account
The observances of an ascetic life
As bloodless shadows, and the men who fight
Therewith as they who beat the elastic air;
Or haply censure their hard usages
As an affront to His benignant Love,
Who, from His boundless Mercy, hath allowed
His own eternal Glory to receive
Increase from His subordinate creatures' bliss.
Happy are they, if when they reason thus,
They seek, though blindly, to extol His love,
Not rather for themselves evade those acts
The joy of which they do not comprehend,
Or thro' the instinctive hatred of high thoughts
Which passes current now for lowliness,—
The wisdom of a pusillanimous age.
Yet do they err, in pondering not the griefs
That Love is multiplying on the earth
All hours, and in adoring not the mode
Which He vouchsafes to use with our poor race,
Love seeking love among the shades of pain,
In the cool times of life, when suffering frees
The spirit from the ardours of the world,
As once at eve in Eden He pursued
His flying creature: and not less do they
That humble courage disesteem, that heart
To give as kings unto a king, infused
By our transcendent union with our Lord,
Both God and Man, the heart wherewith the Saints,
Seeking for pain when it seeks not for them,
Have ventured to be Gods unto themselves.
The unfathomable ends of Corporal Pain,
And its remedial powers: and thus account
The observances of an ascetic life
As bloodless shadows, and the men who fight
Therewith as they who beat the elastic air;
Or haply censure their hard usages
As an affront to His benignant Love,
Who, from His boundless Mercy, hath allowed
His own eternal Glory to receive
Increase from His subordinate creatures' bliss.
Happy are they, if when they reason thus,
They seek, though blindly, to extol His love,
Not rather for themselves evade those acts
The joy of which they do not comprehend,
Or thro' the instinctive hatred of high thoughts
Which passes current now for lowliness,—
The wisdom of a pusillanimous age.
Yet do they err, in pondering not the griefs
That Love is multiplying on the earth
All hours, and in adoring not the mode
Which He vouchsafes to use with our poor race,
Love seeking love among the shades of pain,
In the cool times of life, when suffering frees
The spirit from the ardours of the world,
As once at eve in Eden He pursued
His flying creature: and not less do they
That humble courage disesteem, that heart
To give as kings unto a king, infused
By our transcendent union with our Lord,
Both God and Man, the heart wherewith the Saints,
189
Have ventured to be Gods unto themselves.
And error beckons error: there are men,
And some not proud, whose blindness might be termed
The failing of mistaken gentleness,
Who cannot with a child's heroic trust
Lean on the Church's arm, while she displays
The final vision of Eternal Pain.
O unaffectionate Hearts! Ungrateful Souls!
Go to the Passion, in the balance weigh
How great the amount of our Atonement made
Through corporal Suffering, count the separate Thorns,
The undistinguishable number guess
Of cruel Lashes; dive into the sea
Of overwhelming Sorrows to whose deeps
Language may do no more than point the way
Unto the reverent silence of our thoughts:—
And is there not a fitness that the pain,
Thro' which in part our price was paid, should be
The curse of those who have disowned the debt?
When sorrow comes or sickness, ye are first
To cry, A blessing: shall the Saints on earth
Be sanctified by pain, yet it be called
Unseemly for the torments of the Lost?
And, seeing that Grace hath been conferred on all,
Sufficient grace, or proximate or remote,
O shall Eternity be thought too long
For that appalling exile, when the Love
And Justice sinned against are infinite?
For as the measure of the sin hath been,
So are the bounds of expiation; one,
One infinite Ransom is already paid,
And till a second be found it needs must be
That Hell should be eternal. Wouldst thou know
What are the limits of thine actual guilt?
Of Catherine learn, the Sainted Genoese,
Who prayed that to her soul might be disclosed
The heinousness of but one venial sin,
And when her prayer was answered, swooned away.
Spread out your minds, ye faltering disputants!
Until they compass what the Church hath ruled;
For if ye teach an infinite Mercy joined
With only finite Justice, ye do err
Against that equal majesty which reigns
Amid the awful attributes of God,
And erring thus, it may be ye blaspheme.
And some not proud, whose blindness might be termed
The failing of mistaken gentleness,
Who cannot with a child's heroic trust
Lean on the Church's arm, while she displays
The final vision of Eternal Pain.
O unaffectionate Hearts! Ungrateful Souls!
Go to the Passion, in the balance weigh
How great the amount of our Atonement made
Through corporal Suffering, count the separate Thorns,
The undistinguishable number guess
Of cruel Lashes; dive into the sea
Of overwhelming Sorrows to whose deeps
Language may do no more than point the way
Unto the reverent silence of our thoughts:—
And is there not a fitness that the pain,
Thro' which in part our price was paid, should be
The curse of those who have disowned the debt?
When sorrow comes or sickness, ye are first
To cry, A blessing: shall the Saints on earth
Be sanctified by pain, yet it be called
Unseemly for the torments of the Lost?
And, seeing that Grace hath been conferred on all,
Sufficient grace, or proximate or remote,
O shall Eternity be thought too long
For that appalling exile, when the Love
And Justice sinned against are infinite?
For as the measure of the sin hath been,
So are the bounds of expiation; one,
One infinite Ransom is already paid,
190
That Hell should be eternal. Wouldst thou know
What are the limits of thine actual guilt?
Of Catherine learn, the Sainted Genoese,
Who prayed that to her soul might be disclosed
The heinousness of but one venial sin,
And when her prayer was answered, swooned away.
Spread out your minds, ye faltering disputants!
Until they compass what the Church hath ruled;
For if ye teach an infinite Mercy joined
With only finite Justice, ye do err
Against that equal majesty which reigns
Amid the awful attributes of God,
And erring thus, it may be ye blaspheme.
But while Sir Lancelot, in the mystic realm
Of Sickness, passed thro' that benignant Death
Of Self and thro' her purgatorial fires,
No less had he experience of the truth
That Sickness is not wanton with her rod,
But she too hath a third estate, a place
Hard by her fires, a land were none can go
But they who have won patience by their prayers;
And from whose fields the visitants bring back
Strange narratives: this is her Paradise.
Of Sickness, passed thro' that benignant Death
Of Self and thro' her purgatorial fires,
No less had he experience of the truth
That Sickness is not wanton with her rod,
But she too hath a third estate, a place
Hard by her fires, a land were none can go
But they who have won patience by their prayers;
And from whose fields the visitants bring back
Strange narratives: this is her Paradise.
O worth, yea ten times worth the weary days,
The uneasy bed, the long dream-haunted nights,
Are those permitted intervals of ease,
When pain is stayed from interrupting prayer,
Or marring holy thoughts, and feebleness
Disarms the body of its power to prompt
Self-trust, or nurse those spirit-wasting moods
When with a sinful foresight many a man
Builds and unbuilds his thriftless schemes, and makes
An intellectual banquet of the future,
In such poor revel squandering golden hours,
Which might, through patience and conformity
Unto the Will of God, have yielded him
A usury the Saints would not disclaim.
And oft our childhood, like a summer cloud
Borne backward by the wind, returns to cast
A radiant shadow on the sin-worn mind,
And with it brings that softening of the heart,
That leaning towards the innocent and good,
Which in past years was virtue's best ally,
And now, an unexpected visitant,
Like a sweet apparition from the dead,
Melts the hard heart with one benignant look,
Most like the unspeakable Regard which fell
On Peter, yea, to faith's clear eye it is,
Veiled in our human memories, the Same!
The uneasy bed, the long dream-haunted nights,
Are those permitted intervals of ease,
When pain is stayed from interrupting prayer,
Or marring holy thoughts, and feebleness
Disarms the body of its power to prompt
Self-trust, or nurse those spirit-wasting moods
When with a sinful foresight many a man
Builds and unbuilds his thriftless schemes, and makes
An intellectual banquet of the future,
191
Which might, through patience and conformity
Unto the Will of God, have yielded him
A usury the Saints would not disclaim.
And oft our childhood, like a summer cloud
Borne backward by the wind, returns to cast
A radiant shadow on the sin-worn mind,
And with it brings that softening of the heart,
That leaning towards the innocent and good,
Which in past years was virtue's best ally,
And now, an unexpected visitant,
Like a sweet apparition from the dead,
Melts the hard heart with one benignant look,
Most like the unspeakable Regard which fell
On Peter, yea, to faith's clear eye it is,
Veiled in our human memories, the Same!
Such intervals of painless calm befell
The patient Knight; the scourge in Satan's hand
From time to time was partially restrained,
That mercy might enquire how far her ends
Were furthered by affliction: for the Powers,
Justice and Mercy, love to walk the earth
Wearing each other's garb; and in their strife,
Outreaching one another in their zeal
To do the work of love, a man discerns
That marvellous concurrence of the good
And ill of life, which in respect of him,
And manifested only to himself,
A private revelation sweetly clear,
Is the supreme and blessed Will of God.
The patient Knight; the scourge in Satan's hand
From time to time was partially restrained,
That mercy might enquire how far her ends
Were furthered by affliction: for the Powers,
Justice and Mercy, love to walk the earth
Wearing each other's garb; and in their strife,
Outreaching one another in their zeal
To do the work of love, a man discerns
That marvellous concurrence of the good
And ill of life, which in respect of him,
And manifested only to himself,
A private revelation sweetly clear,
Is the supreme and blessed Will of God.
And such a respite chanced to be his lot
One morning when a fresh access of pain,
And of the inward burning, through the night
Had tried unto the uttermost his power
Of meek endurance. From the half clothed boughs,
And the wet-laden ivy leaves which hung
Above his mullioned window, fell the rain
In fitful splashes, while the cheerless wind
Fought with the mighty buttresses that met
And broke its violence: if that deep joy,
Which the soul tastes at such an hour, were born
Of sunny prospect or of welcome news,
It had not then been his; but what he felt
Needed not outward circumstance, but leaned
Upon the invisible heights from which it came,
No self-supporting faculty, but more—
The Gift of God's Own Presence in the soul!
One morning when a fresh access of pain,
And of the inward burning, through the night
Had tried unto the uttermost his power
192
And the wet-laden ivy leaves which hung
Above his mullioned window, fell the rain
In fitful splashes, while the cheerless wind
Fought with the mighty buttresses that met
And broke its violence: if that deep joy,
Which the soul tastes at such an hour, were born
Of sunny prospect or of welcome news,
It had not then been his; but what he felt
Needed not outward circumstance, but leaned
Upon the invisible heights from which it came,
No self-supporting faculty, but more—
The Gift of God's Own Presence in the soul!
O Gift unspeakably divine! to be
At peace and yet in penance:—this it is
Which forms the secret science of the Saints,—
To endure the vision of our sins, and yet
To bear, with spirit tranquillized by awe,
That Justifying Presence in ourselves
With so much love as stays the guilty mind
From being too much abashed; and hence we learn,
That even self-accusation is a thing
Of which wise men are parsimonious, lest
They should speak evil of the things of God,
And in their estimate of sin involve
A consequence of grace; and lowliness
Is not what some men deem it, but is nursed
More when the greatness of God's mercy falls
Like an o'erwhelming shadow on the soul,
Than when it sits in judgment on itself.
At peace and yet in penance:—this it is
Which forms the secret science of the Saints,—
To endure the vision of our sins, and yet
To bear, with spirit tranquillized by awe,
That Justifying Presence in ourselves
With so much love as stays the guilty mind
From being too much abashed; and hence we learn,
That even self-accusation is a thing
Of which wise men are parsimonious, lest
They should speak evil of the things of God,
And in their estimate of sin involve
A consequence of grace; and lowliness
Is not what some men deem it, but is nursed
More when the greatness of God's mercy falls
Like an o'erwhelming shadow on the soul,
Than when it sits in judgment on itself.
Upon his narrow bed Sir Lancelot lay,
Though not in vocal prayer, yet with his thoughts
Upraised to Heaven in wondering gratitude:
For not less sudden was the welcome change
Than to the storm-tossed voyager when his ship
From the vexed waters springs, as from a bow,
And in a moment glides within the mole
Of some smooth port, and on her anchor there
Rides like a bird upon an inland lake.
Ah! who shall say what transport then was his!
Wonder, and peace, and joy, and fervent love,
Lightness of heart, and that unearthly sense
Of God's forgiveness which so oft ensues
On bodily pain, or on misfortune borne
In penitent submission, and, with all,
That consciousness of an immortal soul,
And of a life beyond death's reach, which grows
Upon the ruins of our animal strength,
Whose separate liberty we realize
With modest exultation and with prayer.
And with the influx of these glorious thoughts
His childhood passed into his soul once more,
Taking his nature with such calm surprise
That, ere he was aware, his ancient heart,
His simple heart of childlike faith and love,
With blissful travail was brought forth again,
And scarcely conscious of the heavenly change,
He wept some few sweet tears, and knew not why.
Though not in vocal prayer, yet with his thoughts
Upraised to Heaven in wondering gratitude:
For not less sudden was the welcome change
193
From the vexed waters springs, as from a bow,
And in a moment glides within the mole
Of some smooth port, and on her anchor there
Rides like a bird upon an inland lake.
Ah! who shall say what transport then was his!
Wonder, and peace, and joy, and fervent love,
Lightness of heart, and that unearthly sense
Of God's forgiveness which so oft ensues
On bodily pain, or on misfortune borne
In penitent submission, and, with all,
That consciousness of an immortal soul,
And of a life beyond death's reach, which grows
Upon the ruins of our animal strength,
Whose separate liberty we realize
With modest exultation and with prayer.
And with the influx of these glorious thoughts
His childhood passed into his soul once more,
Taking his nature with such calm surprise
That, ere he was aware, his ancient heart,
His simple heart of childlike faith and love,
With blissful travail was brought forth again,
And scarcely conscious of the heavenly change,
He wept some few sweet tears, and knew not why.
Long had his thoughts of mingled love and fear
In arduous meditation been sustained
Upon the Passion, not unduly deemed
The Christian's chief devotion, yet a scene
So dark, so humbling, that it well may be
At certain seasons more a source of fear
Than consolation and confiding love;
And a long vigil round the Saviour's Cross
For our weak nature needs an Easter joy
To follow, while a further help is sought
In those bland intermissions, neither fast
Nor wholly feast, the Sundays interposed
As stations in the toilsome hills of Lent,—
Toilsome for those who climb their stony sides
Amid the obscuring mists of penance wrapped,
But for the purer souls who go that road
For contemplation, and to gain some place
Nearer to Jesus, rather may we name
Those welcome heights the Happy Hills of Lent.
In arduous meditation been sustained
Upon the Passion, not unduly deemed
The Christian's chief devotion, yet a scene
So dark, so humbling, that it well may be
At certain seasons more a source of fear
Than consolation and confiding love;
And a long vigil round the Saviour's Cross
For our weak nature needs an Easter joy
To follow, while a further help is sought
194
Nor wholly feast, the Sundays interposed
As stations in the toilsome hills of Lent,—
Toilsome for those who climb their stony sides
Amid the obscuring mists of penance wrapped,
But for the purer souls who go that road
For contemplation, and to gain some place
Nearer to Jesus, rather may we name
Those welcome heights the Happy Hills of Lent.
With this one subject occupied, his thoughts,
Like weary birds too long upon the wing
With nought but sea beneath them, had been fain
To light, but found no resting-place till now,
When, haply by suggestion from above,
A new direction given unto their course
Brought them above one solitary isle,
One region of sweet truths which lies apart,
Severed by secrecy divine, whose stores
Are haply left as part of that reward
Which is reserved for faith,—the Infancy
Of our Incarnate Lord; a radiant tract,
Which from the Angel's covert message grows
Upon the adoring eye, while on its shore
The Shepherds watch, the Watching Angels sing,
The Cattle low around the new-born Child,
The Magians travel with the Star above,
The obedient Star, a still slow-moving point
Threading its way among the crowded orbs
Without collision, like the Will of God
Amid the multitudinous sins of men
In heavenly peace accomplishing Itself.
Beautiful Region! on its wondrous fields,
As in compartments, but for twelve short years
The Gracious Mystery is depicted; then
Beneath a veil of heavenly clouds withdrawn,
It mocks the disappointed eye, till faith
Finds in the muteness of the Written Word
A place for adoration more sublime,
And loving acquiescence, than might be
Haply in fuller knowledge.
Like weary birds too long upon the wing
With nought but sea beneath them, had been fain
To light, but found no resting-place till now,
When, haply by suggestion from above,
A new direction given unto their course
Brought them above one solitary isle,
One region of sweet truths which lies apart,
Severed by secrecy divine, whose stores
Are haply left as part of that reward
Which is reserved for faith,—the Infancy
Of our Incarnate Lord; a radiant tract,
Which from the Angel's covert message grows
Upon the adoring eye, while on its shore
The Shepherds watch, the Watching Angels sing,
The Cattle low around the new-born Child,
The Magians travel with the Star above,
The obedient Star, a still slow-moving point
Threading its way among the crowded orbs
Without collision, like the Will of God
Amid the multitudinous sins of men
In heavenly peace accomplishing Itself.
Beautiful Region! on its wondrous fields,
As in compartments, but for twelve short years
The Gracious Mystery is depicted; then
195
It mocks the disappointed eye, till faith
Finds in the muteness of the Written Word
A place for adoration more sublime,
And loving acquiescence, than might be
Haply in fuller knowledge.
On this shore
Sir Lancelot's thoughts alighted, with surprise
As great as though it had not been a place,
Which with his mother's guidance he had oft
In early days explored. For so it seemed
All new, and more than new, for it was clothed
With freshness such as novelty alone
Could never give; and on its fragrant fields
He fell, like one who with his spirits depressed,
And wonted cheerful visions overcast,
By too long sojourn amid summits bare
And the tremendous silence of the snow,
The birdless sky, and giant-featured crags,
Sinks on the Val Misocco from the heights
Of Bernardin, and feeds his hungry eye
Upon the sunny lowlands; and in folds,
Dense folds of sylvan light and shade, enchains
And masters that wild rapture which has held
His chilled imagination in its grasp
For many a wakeful night, and silent day
More visionary than the night itself;
And his unfettered thoughts, which fly abroad
Amid the exuberant change, fix here and there
In some bright spot an instantaneous home,
As dear as though the accidents of years
Had worn its features in the very soul.
Sir Lancelot's thoughts alighted, with surprise
As great as though it had not been a place,
Which with his mother's guidance he had oft
In early days explored. For so it seemed
All new, and more than new, for it was clothed
With freshness such as novelty alone
Could never give; and on its fragrant fields
He fell, like one who with his spirits depressed,
And wonted cheerful visions overcast,
By too long sojourn amid summits bare
And the tremendous silence of the snow,
The birdless sky, and giant-featured crags,
Sinks on the Val Misocco from the heights
Of Bernardin, and feeds his hungry eye
Upon the sunny lowlands; and in folds,
Dense folds of sylvan light and shade, enchains
And masters that wild rapture which has held
His chilled imagination in its grasp
For many a wakeful night, and silent day
More visionary than the night itself;
And his unfettered thoughts, which fly abroad
Amid the exuberant change, fix here and there
In some bright spot an instantaneous home,
As dear as though the accidents of years
Had worn its features in the very soul.
Silence! self-trusting Thoughts!—and Phantasy,
Back to thy home; thou art not needed here;
And here too be the anxious craft of verse
Suspended for awhile. Thou, Spirit of Grace!
Who from the Eternal Father and the Son
Eternally proceeding, dost uphold
Meek wills, and modest intellects no less
Informest with sweet knowledge, guide my song,
Guide it along a path of simple words,
Amid whose reverential plainness men
May better hear the echo of Thy Church,
In festive liturgy or deep discourse
Illustrating the Childhood of her Lord.
Back to thy home; thou art not needed here;
196
Suspended for awhile. Thou, Spirit of Grace!
Who from the Eternal Father and the Son
Eternally proceeding, dost uphold
Meek wills, and modest intellects no less
Informest with sweet knowledge, guide my song,
Guide it along a path of simple words,
Amid whose reverential plainness men
May better hear the echo of Thy Church,
In festive liturgy or deep discourse
Illustrating the Childhood of her Lord.
And if with sedulous meaning I have sought
And anxious purpose, to reflect the strife
Of these our painful days upon my verse,
With such suggestions as may lend some aid
To those who walk in this dark land of ours,
Now let it be permitted to retire,
Where the mute Shadow of my song invites
And beckons, into a chamber where the noise
Of angry disputants is heard far off,
If heard at all, a chamber of sweet truths
Where for my profit I may dwell awhile
With Mary and Saint Joseph, and the Three
Who came with mystic Gifts, and Angel Choirs,
And simple Shepherds, and the jubilant troop
Of little Martyr-brethren who went out
First followers of the Lamb, dear pursuivants,
Who laid their bodies on the road, as pearls
Or as sown stars, to signalize the way,
Whereon the Apostles afterwards should tread,
Martyrs and Virgins, Saints and pious Kings,
And the vast concourse of the holy Church.
O let us seek at least brief shelter there,
And turn the helm of our half-shipwrecked thoughts.
And anxious purpose, to reflect the strife
Of these our painful days upon my verse,
With such suggestions as may lend some aid
To those who walk in this dark land of ours,
Now let it be permitted to retire,
Where the mute Shadow of my song invites
And beckons, into a chamber where the noise
Of angry disputants is heard far off,
If heard at all, a chamber of sweet truths
Where for my profit I may dwell awhile
With Mary and Saint Joseph, and the Three
Who came with mystic Gifts, and Angel Choirs,
And simple Shepherds, and the jubilant troop
Of little Martyr-brethren who went out
First followers of the Lamb, dear pursuivants,
Who laid their bodies on the road, as pearls
Or as sown stars, to signalize the way,
Whereon the Apostles afterwards should tread,
Martyrs and Virgins, Saints and pious Kings,
And the vast concourse of the holy Church.
O let us seek at least brief shelter there,
And turn the helm of our half-shipwrecked thoughts.
197
Our load is hard to bear;—the world that seems
So wise, and in some aspects so reformed,
So needful to us, and full often kind,
And of our very selves so much a part,
Hath drifted from the sole authentic Church,
Believes the false predominant therein,
And in its very piety blasphemes
Him who is true; yet doth it raise, with speech
Respectful, and with no apparent guile,
Full many an anxious question, that demands
A ready answer, not so soothly found,
And yet which may not now be long delayed
Without the loss of many thousand souls.
The load is hard to bear:—the chance, that he,
Who, as an act of faith, shall boldly cut
All ties that bind him to his times, and thus
Live out of sympathy with modern things,
May scare the souls he haply might have won,
And wound the Heart of Jesus by a zeal
Unlike His own:—this is an anxious fear.
And then there lies the opposite chance, that he,
Who with a facile deference to the world
Should make the Church seem world-like, and give up
Some of her heavenly maxims, and so clear
His mind by making free with truth, should learn
Hereafter to his cost that he mistook
Selfwill for lowliness, and so become
To one whole generation an offence:—
And in this fluctuating doubt is grief
Enough to cause gray hairs before their time.
So wise, and in some aspects so reformed,
So needful to us, and full often kind,
And of our very selves so much a part,
Hath drifted from the sole authentic Church,
Believes the false predominant therein,
And in its very piety blasphemes
Him who is true; yet doth it raise, with speech
Respectful, and with no apparent guile,
Full many an anxious question, that demands
A ready answer, not so soothly found,
And yet which may not now be long delayed
Without the loss of many thousand souls.
The load is hard to bear:—the chance, that he,
Who, as an act of faith, shall boldly cut
All ties that bind him to his times, and thus
Live out of sympathy with modern things,
May scare the souls he haply might have won,
And wound the Heart of Jesus by a zeal
Unlike His own:—this is an anxious fear.
And then there lies the opposite chance, that he,
Who with a facile deference to the world
Should make the Church seem world-like, and give up
Some of her heavenly maxims, and so clear
His mind by making free with truth, should learn
Hereafter to his cost that he mistook
Selfwill for lowliness, and so become
To one whole generation an offence:—
And in this fluctuating doubt is grief
Enough to cause gray hairs before their time.
O problem of an unbelieving world!
The hearts, that have been stretched upon the rack
Of this most piercing doubt, may well believe
No inward anguish can surpass its pain.
But Oh! there is a torture worse than this,—
The problem of the misbelieving good!
For we would fain believe sweet things of those,
More dear to us than words can tell, who seem
So near the truth, yet ever fall away
Further and further when they come most near,
And altogether when they almost touch.
Hard task to faith to leave all these to God,
To trust Him and enquire not, but adore,
In darkness which He wills not should be light,
The merciful severities of truth.
Only by holy living can we wring
Light from the darkness, and at length go free
Of our perplexing thoughts, while this great truth,
Like a slow sunrise, dawns upon the soul,—
That Goodness baffles Wisdom when they strive,
And that they dwell together when at peace.
The hearts, that have been stretched upon the rack
Of this most piercing doubt, may well believe
198
But Oh! there is a torture worse than this,—
The problem of the misbelieving good!
For we would fain believe sweet things of those,
More dear to us than words can tell, who seem
So near the truth, yet ever fall away
Further and further when they come most near,
And altogether when they almost touch.
Hard task to faith to leave all these to God,
To trust Him and enquire not, but adore,
In darkness which He wills not should be light,
The merciful severities of truth.
Only by holy living can we wring
Light from the darkness, and at length go free
Of our perplexing thoughts, while this great truth,
Like a slow sunrise, dawns upon the soul,—
That Goodness baffles Wisdom when they strive,
And that they dwell together when at peace.
And meanwhile let us seek not to be spared
One jot of our perplexity, nor strive
To extricate ourselves and stand aloof
From the world's travail, nor forswearing thus
Our special heritage, let us succumb
To love of quiet, or the vile repose
Of literary ease, than pomp of life
More irreligious far: but let us strive
To absorb a thousand hearts into our own,
And force with irresistible success,
Through secret prayer and outward sympathy,
A Christian wisdom and magnanimous change
Upon the sickly spirit of the Age.
For love of Christ, we may not stand apart
From the world's strife, nor basely satisfy
Our indolence, by that ignoble boast,
So oft the ready refuge of conceit,
That our sole dealings are with ancient days,
And that we scorn to suffer with our own?
One jot of our perplexity, nor strive
To extricate ourselves and stand aloof
From the world's travail, nor forswearing thus
Our special heritage, let us succumb
To love of quiet, or the vile repose
Of literary ease, than pomp of life
More irreligious far: but let us strive
To absorb a thousand hearts into our own,
And force with irresistible success,
Through secret prayer and outward sympathy,
A Christian wisdom and magnanimous change
Upon the sickly spirit of the Age.
For love of Christ, we may not stand apart
From the world's strife, nor basely satisfy
Our indolence, by that ignoble boast,
199
That our sole dealings are with ancient days,
And that we scorn to suffer with our own?
Remembering this, yet we may enter now
The hermitage of peaceful thoughts hard by,
And with the Shepherds kneel before the Child.
The hermitage of peaceful thoughts hard by,
And with the Shepherds kneel before the Child.
Say, Mighty Mistress, O Celestial Faith!
Why in untroubled rapture standest Thou
Straining thine eye into the ages past?
Ah! thou hast lit upon a wondrous scene,
Withheld from mortal gaze—that secret Hour,—
Whether before sunrise at early prayer,
Or the noon-day retirement of the East,
Or meditative eve, or starry night—
When, as the mother of mankind conceived
From Satan's whispers that undying sin
Which is the sin of all, so at the words
Of Gabriel did the blissful Mother-Maid,
Surprised yet acquiescent, then conceive
Within her virgin-womb that Righteousness
Who is the Righteousness of all. First fount
Was that predestined hour of all those truths,
Which in harmonious order rising, each
From each, with inward melody construct
The Catholic Faith wherein we live and breathe
And are transformed into the sons of God,
And made joint-heirs with Christ the Holy Child.
Why in untroubled rapture standest Thou
Straining thine eye into the ages past?
Ah! thou hast lit upon a wondrous scene,
Withheld from mortal gaze—that secret Hour,—
Whether before sunrise at early prayer,
Or the noon-day retirement of the East,
Or meditative eve, or starry night—
When, as the mother of mankind conceived
From Satan's whispers that undying sin
Which is the sin of all, so at the words
Of Gabriel did the blissful Mother-Maid,
Surprised yet acquiescent, then conceive
Within her virgin-womb that Righteousness
Who is the Righteousness of all. First fount
Was that predestined hour of all those truths,
Which in harmonious order rising, each
From each, with inward melody construct
The Catholic Faith wherein we live and breathe
And are transformed into the sons of God,
And made joint-heirs with Christ the Holy Child.
Ah! see Him lying on our Lady's lap,
The Saviour and the Maker of the World,
Amid the winter's cold, the uneasy straw,
And patient feeding beasts! How wonderful
His Childhood, seeing He was God Himself!
And, because wonderful, how winning too
To us for love of whom it was endured!
Those Sacred Feet shall walk the stony ways
To do men good, who shall with foul return
Transfix them with a nail: those Infant Hands
Shall heal and bless and multiply the Bread
Of His own Flesh, and they too shall be nailed
Upon the bitter Cross; and yet for us,
To be at that Right Hand is all our hope,
To be upon that Left our only fear:
And to faith's eye that Infant Head is crowned
Already with ensanguined Thorns, which love,
Weeping, may recognize for all her sins
Foreseen and suffered, and thus learn to love,
Like Magdalen, with more importunate hope.
So did He elevate our mortal acts
And sanctify our natural griefs: He spoke,
He wept, He thirsted by the well at noon,
Haply He smiled, and yet tradition saith
He smiled not all those three and thirty years;
But wept—we cannot tell how oft He wept.
And He endured the shame of Nakedness
With the new Wine of His dear Passion wet,
In that same hour wherein He stayed the Flood
Of sin by Adam on the earth let loose;
As Noe once had blamelessly endured
In type, with words inspired upon his lips,
The drunkenness wherewith the joyous Church,
With her fresh Sacraments beside herself,
Was rudely charged ere she was three hours old.
O Nakedness of our most loving Lord,
What comely cheering figure dost thou seem
Of Adam bared unto the eye of God
And shameful in his own, yet clothed again
By Christ's unclothing of His glorious Self!
How sweet the affectionate tradition too,
By mindful Peter to the Church consigned,
That in the lonesome night would Jesus rise,
And visit the rude couches of His Twelve,
And re-compose the garments disarrayed
By graceless slumber; thus in outward deed,
Gesture, and miracle, illustrating
Through all those wondrous three and thirty years
The invisible graces of His future Cross.
Then from a Boy, O marvellous! He grew
Like other men, in stature, and He seemed,
Semblance for some mysterious reason worn,
To grow in wisdom, and increase in grace.
Yet sickness came not nigh Him, nor old age:
But otherwise our true infirmities
He with these notable exceptions bore.
The Saviour and the Maker of the World,
Amid the winter's cold, the uneasy straw,
And patient feeding beasts! How wonderful
His Childhood, seeing He was God Himself!
And, because wonderful, how winning too
To us for love of whom it was endured!
200
To do men good, who shall with foul return
Transfix them with a nail: those Infant Hands
Shall heal and bless and multiply the Bread
Of His own Flesh, and they too shall be nailed
Upon the bitter Cross; and yet for us,
To be at that Right Hand is all our hope,
To be upon that Left our only fear:
And to faith's eye that Infant Head is crowned
Already with ensanguined Thorns, which love,
Weeping, may recognize for all her sins
Foreseen and suffered, and thus learn to love,
Like Magdalen, with more importunate hope.
So did He elevate our mortal acts
And sanctify our natural griefs: He spoke,
He wept, He thirsted by the well at noon,
Haply He smiled, and yet tradition saith
He smiled not all those three and thirty years;
But wept—we cannot tell how oft He wept.
And He endured the shame of Nakedness
With the new Wine of His dear Passion wet,
In that same hour wherein He stayed the Flood
Of sin by Adam on the earth let loose;
As Noe once had blamelessly endured
In type, with words inspired upon his lips,
The drunkenness wherewith the joyous Church,
With her fresh Sacraments beside herself,
Was rudely charged ere she was three hours old.
O Nakedness of our most loving Lord,
What comely cheering figure dost thou seem
Of Adam bared unto the eye of God
And shameful in his own, yet clothed again
By Christ's unclothing of His glorious Self!
How sweet the affectionate tradition too,
201
That in the lonesome night would Jesus rise,
And visit the rude couches of His Twelve,
And re-compose the garments disarrayed
By graceless slumber; thus in outward deed,
Gesture, and miracle, illustrating
Through all those wondrous three and thirty years
The invisible graces of His future Cross.
Then from a Boy, O marvellous! He grew
Like other men, in stature, and He seemed,
Semblance for some mysterious reason worn,
To grow in wisdom, and increase in grace.
Yet sickness came not nigh Him, nor old age:
But otherwise our true infirmities
He with these notable exceptions bore.
And let not these seem strange: what cause there was
We know not, but with reverential love
May ponder to our profit, if we keep
Fast hold of that analogy of faith
The Church exacts. Haply it was not well
That He who was eternal should grow old
Even in appearance: haply 'twas to show
That now the length of years hath been unclothed
Of its first Jewish blessing, that to die
And be with Christ is better far than age.
Sickness, which fled before His gracious Touch
Or at His distant Word, might be forbidden
To assail Himself, that so His Sacred Frame,
And all its capabilities of grief,
For that thrice blessed Woe might be reserved
Wherein the world's Atonement was achieved:
Or it might be that where the breath of sin
Hath never passed, nor sickness nor old age
Have privilege to enter; were it so,
Then from our Lord's Humanity we learn,
That holiness may be a means of health,
Ascetic fast a secret source of strength,
Vigil more true repose than purest sleep,
And from its wells virginity distil
(With inward singleness of heart combined)
An agile freedom, an elastic joy,
And a matured simplicity of youth,
Which may perchance anticipate the bliss
Of that angelic vigour which shall wait
Upon our bodies when they rise:—and yet
(Mindful of one how rightly dear to me!)
Let not the soul of him, who on the bed
Of weary sickness lies, be overcast
Because Christ hath not borne this selfsame woe,
Nor honored it in this specific form.
Whether it be the aching strife of mind,
Torture of heart or weight of bodily pain,
Enough that in the Garden, on the Cross,
And in His Life, all grief was sanctified.
We know not, but with reverential love
May ponder to our profit, if we keep
Fast hold of that analogy of faith
The Church exacts. Haply it was not well
That He who was eternal should grow old
Even in appearance: haply 'twas to show
That now the length of years hath been unclothed
Of its first Jewish blessing, that to die
And be with Christ is better far than age.
Sickness, which fled before His gracious Touch
Or at His distant Word, might be forbidden
To assail Himself, that so His Sacred Frame,
And all its capabilities of grief,
For that thrice blessed Woe might be reserved
Wherein the world's Atonement was achieved:
Or it might be that where the breath of sin
Hath never passed, nor sickness nor old age
202
Then from our Lord's Humanity we learn,
That holiness may be a means of health,
Ascetic fast a secret source of strength,
Vigil more true repose than purest sleep,
And from its wells virginity distil
(With inward singleness of heart combined)
An agile freedom, an elastic joy,
And a matured simplicity of youth,
Which may perchance anticipate the bliss
Of that angelic vigour which shall wait
Upon our bodies when they rise:—and yet
(Mindful of one how rightly dear to me!)
Let not the soul of him, who on the bed
Of weary sickness lies, be overcast
Because Christ hath not borne this selfsame woe,
Nor honored it in this specific form.
Whether it be the aching strife of mind,
Torture of heart or weight of bodily pain,
Enough that in the Garden, on the Cross,
And in His Life, all grief was sanctified.
O Lord! who hast unto Thy humble Saints
Full oft imparted grace to sing or teach
The Sorrows of Thy Passion, grant to me,
Without offence or rude surmise to sing
The Sorrows of Thine Infancy, a depth,
An inland sea of Heavenly Love, enclosed
And overshadowed by the awful hills
Of Olivet and Calvary, which calls,
As deep to deep, to those surpassing Acts
And final Woes of which it was the source.
The man, who had no childhood, fell; how strange
The thought appears! yet Adam had a time
Of peace and joy, but Thine from first to last,
From the rude Manger to the ruder Cross,
Was one assiduous martyrdom, but crowned
And consummated, deepened not begun,
Amid the darkness of Thy closing days.
The solitude, the chillness, and rough scenes
Of Thy Nativity, the willing Blood
Which at the bidding of the Law was shed,
The Flight to Egypt, and hard sojourn there,
The obedient Privacy within the house
Of Thy reputed Father—ah! how great
Were these humiliations to the Lord
Who fashioned, and in all those selfsame years,
As God, sustained the fabric of the world!
Full oft imparted grace to sing or teach
The Sorrows of Thy Passion, grant to me,
Without offence or rude surmise to sing
The Sorrows of Thine Infancy, a depth,
An inland sea of Heavenly Love, enclosed
And overshadowed by the awful hills
Of Olivet and Calvary, which calls,
As deep to deep, to those surpassing Acts
And final Woes of which it was the source.
The man, who had no childhood, fell; how strange
The thought appears! yet Adam had a time
Of peace and joy, but Thine from first to last,
203
Was one assiduous martyrdom, but crowned
And consummated, deepened not begun,
Amid the darkness of Thy closing days.
The solitude, the chillness, and rough scenes
Of Thy Nativity, the willing Blood
Which at the bidding of the Law was shed,
The Flight to Egypt, and hard sojourn there,
The obedient Privacy within the house
Of Thy reputed Father—ah! how great
Were these humiliations to the Lord
Who fashioned, and in all those selfsame years,
As God, sustained the fabric of the world!
Yet these were but the surface of Thy Grief.
Before Thine Eyes the Passion ever stood,
A vivid apparition: Thorns and Nails,
Each separate act of fierce indignity
And wanton outrage wounded then Thy Heart
With a mysterious keenness: for 'twas said
By them of old, who with tradition's help
Interpreted the doctrine of Saint Paul,
That, for Thy use predestined, was prepared
A human body, specially ordained,
And with most exquisite organs all attuned,
For suffering and capacity of pain,
Within the bounds of true humanity.
And long ago with plaintive eloquence
In old prophetic song Thou didst address
Thyself to God, From My youth up have I
Thy terrors with a troubled mind endured,
And yet a second time, My heaviness
Is ever in My sight;—yea, ever, Lord!
And growing with Thy growth: and yet
There is behind a more surpassing grief,
Exceeding far the foresight of the Cross,
A grief men cannot measure, till they learn
Within the perfect schools of Heaven to take
The altitude of sin, and of the bar
It rears between the human soul and God.
Before Thine Eyes the Passion ever stood,
A vivid apparition: Thorns and Nails,
Each separate act of fierce indignity
And wanton outrage wounded then Thy Heart
With a mysterious keenness: for 'twas said
By them of old, who with tradition's help
Interpreted the doctrine of Saint Paul,
That, for Thy use predestined, was prepared
A human body, specially ordained,
And with most exquisite organs all attuned,
For suffering and capacity of pain,
Within the bounds of true humanity.
And long ago with plaintive eloquence
In old prophetic song Thou didst address
Thyself to God, From My youth up have I
Thy terrors with a troubled mind endured,
And yet a second time, My heaviness
Is ever in My sight;—yea, ever, Lord!
And growing with Thy growth: and yet
There is behind a more surpassing grief,
204
A grief men cannot measure, till they learn
Within the perfect schools of Heaven to take
The altitude of sin, and of the bar
It rears between the human soul and God.
The vision of sin was with the Holy Child;—
All sins that lurking in the long, long past
Cried for His expiation, all the sins
Now daily perpetrated in the world,
The hidden things of this most beautiful night,
Our own short-comings of the day just gone,
All pressed into His spirit, like the Thorns
Crushed by the smiting reed into His Head.
Amid the delicate years of Infancy,
Mary's exuberant love, and Joseph's care
Full of affectionate awe, and watchful joy,
Envying the Mother's freedom,—mid it all,
Age after age defiling in His sight,
He had respect to each particular sin.
O weary, weary burden! borne for us
Even by the Infant Saviour, on His Heart
Bearing the Cross He bore in open day
In after years, no heavier load than this.
And while He saw how men would slight His Love,
And how each age in its peculiar way
Would crucify their Lord afresh, He cried
Unto the Father in prophetic plaint,
My God! what profit is there in My Blood?
And Thou wert Man! O Everlasting God!
And in Thyself vouchsafedst to adorn
And beautify humanity, and found
In fashion as a servant, didst descend
On our behalf to sanctify Thyself!
All sins that lurking in the long, long past
Cried for His expiation, all the sins
Now daily perpetrated in the world,
The hidden things of this most beautiful night,
Our own short-comings of the day just gone,
All pressed into His spirit, like the Thorns
Crushed by the smiting reed into His Head.
Amid the delicate years of Infancy,
Mary's exuberant love, and Joseph's care
Full of affectionate awe, and watchful joy,
Envying the Mother's freedom,—mid it all,
Age after age defiling in His sight,
He had respect to each particular sin.
O weary, weary burden! borne for us
Even by the Infant Saviour, on His Heart
Bearing the Cross He bore in open day
In after years, no heavier load than this.
And while He saw how men would slight His Love,
And how each age in its peculiar way
Would crucify their Lord afresh, He cried
Unto the Father in prophetic plaint,
My God! what profit is there in My Blood?
And Thou wert Man! O Everlasting God!
And in Thyself vouchsafedst to adorn
And beautify humanity, and found
In fashion as a servant, didst descend
On our behalf to sanctify Thyself!
205
Gaze on His Childhood, Faith and Hope and Love!
Gaze with the Angels that are stooping still
From heavenly heights o'er this mysterious work,
In mute or vocal adoration fixed!
Ye, above all, who seek to come forth Saints
From this perplexing strife, O rise and gaze
On this new thing created on the earth,
The Lord's Humanity: upon His Youth,
His Ministry, His crowded Passion gaze!
Ponder it well; for many have there been,
Who with false reverence, and a scanty love,
And an unquiet ignorance, have misdeemed,
To their own hurt, this doctrine of the faith,
Lowering the rule of holy life, to augment
Their trust, which is no trust, in Christ Alone.
These, when they read of some celestial height
Of our Lord's virtue, as a perfect man,
With undistinguishing impatience cry,
Behold His Godhead! oft transferring thus
To His Divinity the sacred fruits
Of His unspotted Manhood, till they lose
The force of His example, and contract
The truth to heresy, and soon forego
In act or even endeavour that strict life
Which His humanity doth illustrate,
Or haply as an absolute rule impose.
Condemned theology it is to say
That in the law God bids impossible things
Unto His creatures: when He bids He warns,
Warns us to do what we can do, to ask
What lies beyond our strength, and by His grace
Puts it within the compass of our strength.
So rule the Fathers, who in council sate
In that fair city whose cathedral bells
Blend with the rushing of the swift Adige.
Gaze with the Angels that are stooping still
From heavenly heights o'er this mysterious work,
In mute or vocal adoration fixed!
Ye, above all, who seek to come forth Saints
From this perplexing strife, O rise and gaze
On this new thing created on the earth,
The Lord's Humanity: upon His Youth,
His Ministry, His crowded Passion gaze!
Ponder it well; for many have there been,
Who with false reverence, and a scanty love,
And an unquiet ignorance, have misdeemed,
To their own hurt, this doctrine of the faith,
Lowering the rule of holy life, to augment
Their trust, which is no trust, in Christ Alone.
These, when they read of some celestial height
Of our Lord's virtue, as a perfect man,
With undistinguishing impatience cry,
Behold His Godhead! oft transferring thus
To His Divinity the sacred fruits
Of His unspotted Manhood, till they lose
The force of His example, and contract
The truth to heresy, and soon forego
In act or even endeavour that strict life
Which His humanity doth illustrate,
Or haply as an absolute rule impose.
Condemned theology it is to say
That in the law God bids impossible things
Unto His creatures: when He bids He warns,
Warns us to do what we can do, to ask
What lies beyond our strength, and by His grace
Puts it within the compass of our strength.
So rule the Fathers, who in council sate
206
Blend with the rushing of the swift Adige.
O rather fearing greatly to be wise
Above the Written Word, let us return
And through the fourfold Gospel trace the signs
Of His pure human virtue, on the Church
And her Tradition leaning, lest we err.
There let us contemplate with emulous awe
How, like a man and by a human way,
Though from the first all depths of grace were His,
And an ungrowing sanctity, He seemed
To learn obedience, and by suffering taught
To grow to that great perfectness, whereby
He was the author of eternal life
To all the obedient; haply pondering this,
We may through prayer win courage to behold
And go some little way towards those heights,
Which grace and our dear Lord's example make,
If hard, yet possible; and this the more,
Supported by the knowledge that we are
Of His Humanity participants,
Couched in the fluent Water and the Grain
Of Chosen Wheat, the mighty Sacraments
Which make us just with God, and deify
Our human nature through the power of faith.
This is the end of man:—far off to look,
Without approach, upon the glorious Power,
The Justice, and the Wisdom of his God,
And with the thought of these great things converse
In trembling silence, in the shadow sitting,
Self-stilled, of God's most awful Attributes
And His disclosed Perfections; one there is
Which claims a different worship, nor can be
Inactively adored, but with strong cries
And tears must be pursued, His Sanctity,
Who bids our holiness reflect His Own,
And be His Own, and therefore sent His Son
That we might better compass with His Aid
That only imitable Attribute,
Least imitable, as it seems, of all.
Above the Written Word, let us return
And through the fourfold Gospel trace the signs
Of His pure human virtue, on the Church
And her Tradition leaning, lest we err.
There let us contemplate with emulous awe
How, like a man and by a human way,
Though from the first all depths of grace were His,
And an ungrowing sanctity, He seemed
To learn obedience, and by suffering taught
To grow to that great perfectness, whereby
He was the author of eternal life
To all the obedient; haply pondering this,
We may through prayer win courage to behold
And go some little way towards those heights,
Which grace and our dear Lord's example make,
If hard, yet possible; and this the more,
Supported by the knowledge that we are
Of His Humanity participants,
Couched in the fluent Water and the Grain
Of Chosen Wheat, the mighty Sacraments
Which make us just with God, and deify
Our human nature through the power of faith.
This is the end of man:—far off to look,
Without approach, upon the glorious Power,
The Justice, and the Wisdom of his God,
And with the thought of these great things converse
In trembling silence, in the shadow sitting,
Self-stilled, of God's most awful Attributes
And His disclosed Perfections; one there is
Which claims a different worship, nor can be
Inactively adored, but with strong cries
207
Who bids our holiness reflect His Own,
And be His Own, and therefore sent His Son
That we might better compass with His Aid
That only imitable Attribute,
Least imitable, as it seems, of all.
O Lord! upon the threshold do I stand
Of that veiled interval of twice nine years,
Which hides Thy Sacred Manhood from our view,
Till from the Jordan we behold Thee rise,
As from a second Nativity;—the seal
Of that forbidden treasure do I kiss
With humblest love; yet, O most gracious Lord!
Let me be bold thereon to found a prayer
For our poor times and Thy neglected Church.
For when I think how every passing hour
In all those eighteen years Thou didst vouchsafe
To speak or act, to worship and obey,
That every motion of Thy manhood was
Humiliation, and was infinite
Because of Thy Divinity,—amazed
Within the sea of my own troubled thoughts
I sink, perceiving that each act of Thine,
Thus infinite, might haply have redeemed,
If God so willed, the sins of all the world.
Then Lord! most good, most holy! if the world
Beyond all ancient precedents of ill
Hath visibly swerved, in order and in truth,
From Thy celestial pattern, and foregone
That catholic unity wherein consists
The vigour of its supernatural life,—
By all the merits of those silent years,
By all the deeds and sayings unrevealed
Of Thy mysterious Youth, vouchsafe to give
A second Youth to this enfeebled world,
And reinfuse the sacrament of health
Thro' its unequal and distempered limbs,
And chiefly for that end, O multiply
Thy grace upon Thy chosen seat of Rome!
Of that veiled interval of twice nine years,
Which hides Thy Sacred Manhood from our view,
Till from the Jordan we behold Thee rise,
As from a second Nativity;—the seal
Of that forbidden treasure do I kiss
With humblest love; yet, O most gracious Lord!
Let me be bold thereon to found a prayer
For our poor times and Thy neglected Church.
For when I think how every passing hour
In all those eighteen years Thou didst vouchsafe
To speak or act, to worship and obey,
That every motion of Thy manhood was
Humiliation, and was infinite
Because of Thy Divinity,—amazed
Within the sea of my own troubled thoughts
I sink, perceiving that each act of Thine,
Thus infinite, might haply have redeemed,
If God so willed, the sins of all the world.
Then Lord! most good, most holy! if the world
Beyond all ancient precedents of ill
Hath visibly swerved, in order and in truth,
From Thy celestial pattern, and foregone
That catholic unity wherein consists
The vigour of its supernatural life,—
By all the merits of those silent years,
By all the deeds and sayings unrevealed
Of Thy mysterious Youth, vouchsafe to give
208
And reinfuse the sacrament of health
Thro' its unequal and distempered limbs,
And chiefly for that end, O multiply
Thy grace upon Thy chosen seat of Rome!
Thus far, haply too far, my ardent song,
Coasting this marvellous shore, hath dared to say
How fair the land appeared; and what it left
Of fancy unexpressed shall now be laid,
With all the guesses fertile wonder breeds,
A sacrifice of silence, on the shrine.
For there be thoughts, whose grateful hardihood
May win acceptance there, for which the garb
Of words were all unmeet, and which might seem
Too venturesome if it were not that love
Is nourished on them. May they not displease
Him for whose love they have been entertained!
Coasting this marvellous shore, hath dared to say
How fair the land appeared; and what it left
Of fancy unexpressed shall now be laid,
With all the guesses fertile wonder breeds,
A sacrifice of silence, on the shrine.
For there be thoughts, whose grateful hardihood
May win acceptance there, for which the garb
Of words were all unmeet, and which might seem
Too venturesome if it were not that love
Is nourished on them. May they not displease
Him for whose love they have been entertained!
Such was Sir Lancelot's study, and to him
Like some devotional picture it appeared,
Where on one field a mystery is set forth
In diverse acts, and hills rise all around
Capped with blue pine-trees set against the sky,
As the old Christian artists loved to paint.
And this similitude they will not deem
Beneath the heavenly subject, who are wont
To read that sweet theology involved
In the mute gestures of the sacred groups,
Which great Angelico of old pourtrayed,
Justly beatified, as claiming rank
Amid the doctors of the Church; nor less,
With his devotional system, in his way
Of eloquent silence, comments on the faith,
Than Bonaventure or St. Thomas, freed
From many a formal strife and hard device
To which their gentle minds were forced to bow,
Though in their lightest question there is hid
More food than in the strength of other minds.
Like some devotional picture it appeared,
Where on one field a mystery is set forth
In diverse acts, and hills rise all around
Capped with blue pine-trees set against the sky,
As the old Christian artists loved to paint.
And this similitude they will not deem
Beneath the heavenly subject, who are wont
To read that sweet theology involved
In the mute gestures of the sacred groups,
Which great Angelico of old pourtrayed,
Justly beatified, as claiming rank
Amid the doctors of the Church; nor less,
With his devotional system, in his way
Of eloquent silence, comments on the faith,
Than Bonaventure or St. Thomas, freed
From many a formal strife and hard device
209
Though in their lightest question there is hid
More food than in the strength of other minds.
Such was the Sacred Infancy of Christ
To that lone Sufferer in his silent cell.
Ah! how consoling was this heavenly field,
This catholic pasture where his thoughts lay down
To feed and rest! For when the intellect
Is weak and overstrained, there are some truths
The passive heart can better apprehend,
Than weary reason; and her docile toil
Can recreate and tranquillize, not bend
The burdened faculties. Consoling too
Chiefly was this sweet subject now to him,
As being less intertwined with human sin
Than the great Passion, deepening penitence
More by its downeast bearing than the voice
Of open admonition; not as though
It were not guilt which instigated love
To bear that lesser yoke, but that he felt
The visible presence of his sins was there
Far less with him, than underneath the Cross.
To that lone Sufferer in his silent cell.
Ah! how consoling was this heavenly field,
This catholic pasture where his thoughts lay down
To feed and rest! For when the intellect
Is weak and overstrained, there are some truths
The passive heart can better apprehend,
Than weary reason; and her docile toil
Can recreate and tranquillize, not bend
The burdened faculties. Consoling too
Chiefly was this sweet subject now to him,
As being less intertwined with human sin
Than the great Passion, deepening penitence
More by its downeast bearing than the voice
Of open admonition; not as though
It were not guilt which instigated love
To bear that lesser yoke, but that he felt
The visible presence of his sins was there
Far less with him, than underneath the Cross.
Weeks fled in this devotion, and the spring
Was passing into summer, when it chanced
There came on ardent mission to the House
Of Calder an Italian monk, a man
For holy life and supernatural gifts
Alike renowned, and, it was whispered there,
Favoured with revelations; and impressed
Upon his bodily flesh it was believed
Was some tremendous cognizance, the sign
Of fearful strife with man's invisible foes.
A son he was of that mysterious land,
The barren Umbria, brother of a house,
Whose airy bells, almost in faintness lost,
Hardly upon calm summer mornings shed
Sweet murmurs on the vale; so high it stands
Amid the many-folded Apennines.
Was passing into summer, when it chanced
There came on ardent mission to the House
Of Calder an Italian monk, a man
For holy life and supernatural gifts
Alike renowned, and, it was whispered there,
Favoured with revelations; and impressed
Upon his bodily flesh it was believed
Was some tremendous cognizance, the sign
Of fearful strife with man's invisible foes.
A son he was of that mysterious land,
The barren Umbria, brother of a house,
210
Hardly upon calm summer mornings shed
Sweet murmurs on the vale; so high it stands
Amid the many-folded Apennines.
Beautiful Mountains! who that hears your name
Is not in spite of nature and himself
Forthwith a poet? Yea, the very sound
Plays with the mind, even as the forest wind
In summer with the multitudinous trees:
So various are the chords which it doth press,
So strangely wild the symphony they make:—
Love, War, and Pleasure, memorable Crime,
The seeds of Freedom working through the soil
In a tempestuous spring of civil strife,
Antique memorials, Roman or Tyrrhene,
Legends and Towers of mediæval fame,
The verse of Dante lingering still to add
Music unto a hundred sweet-named brooks,
Art, Faith, and numberless remembrances
Gleaned in our travels there, or localized
In study's more imaginative hours
In those fair spots where all the world hath been,
If not in presence, yet with heart and eye,
Genoa, and Naples, or the glistening towns
Which Arno laves! O Range of Apennines!
How clear athwart my vision dost thou come
Mid the elm-shadowed meads by Nenna's side,
Growing so real as oft to intercept
With purple line the tower of Fotheringay!
Thee would I celebrate in grateful verse,
Mindful of that most pregnant hour when I
Sat in the heart of Pisa on the quay,
The loitering Arno at my feet, and mused
Upon the manifold story of thy hills,
Heathen or Christian.
Is not in spite of nature and himself
Forthwith a poet? Yea, the very sound
Plays with the mind, even as the forest wind
In summer with the multitudinous trees:
So various are the chords which it doth press,
So strangely wild the symphony they make:—
Love, War, and Pleasure, memorable Crime,
The seeds of Freedom working through the soil
In a tempestuous spring of civil strife,
Antique memorials, Roman or Tyrrhene,
Legends and Towers of mediæval fame,
The verse of Dante lingering still to add
Music unto a hundred sweet-named brooks,
Art, Faith, and numberless remembrances
Gleaned in our travels there, or localized
In study's more imaginative hours
In those fair spots where all the world hath been,
If not in presence, yet with heart and eye,
Genoa, and Naples, or the glistening towns
Which Arno laves! O Range of Apennines!
How clear athwart my vision dost thou come
Mid the elm-shadowed meads by Nenna's side,
Growing so real as oft to intercept
With purple line the tower of Fotheringay!
Thee would I celebrate in grateful verse,
Mindful of that most pregnant hour when I
Sat in the heart of Pisa on the quay,
The loitering Arno at my feet, and mused
211
Heathen or Christian.
Ah! how went the hours
With noiseless lapse amid thy balmy skirts
Of orange blossom, and the odorous breaths
From the warm fig-leaves steaming up thy sides,
Or in the lanes where on the Mayday morns
The gentle breeze brings down a snowy shower
Of flaky wool from off the poplar boughs,
Strewing their vernal fleeces on the ways;
While in the pale green light of olive groves
The birds would sing unto the lisping sea
All through the drowsy noon, so like the eve
Is that soft foliaged twilight; and for leagues
The eye enjoys with rapture unappeased
The constant presence of that Earthly Sky,
That Sea whose brightness has no adequate name!
With noiseless lapse amid thy balmy skirts
Of orange blossom, and the odorous breaths
From the warm fig-leaves steaming up thy sides,
Or in the lanes where on the Mayday morns
The gentle breeze brings down a snowy shower
Of flaky wool from off the poplar boughs,
Strewing their vernal fleeces on the ways;
While in the pale green light of olive groves
The birds would sing unto the lisping sea
All through the drowsy noon, so like the eve
Is that soft foliaged twilight; and for leagues
The eye enjoys with rapture unappeased
The constant presence of that Earthly Sky,
That Sea whose brightness has no adequate name!
How pleasant too, more oft than need required,
The rests upon some castellated steep,
Where the red broken ground might almost seem
Wet with the blood of Guelph or Ghibelline,
And there to muse upon the stirring past,
While to the haply lifted eye there came
Strange emblem of the present,—slope and field
And woodland, diverse kinds, all chained in one
With shackles of green vine, a sunny green
Jocund and bright as Italy herself
Wearing her chains in helpless happiness!
Sweetest, because most solemn, was the hour
When in the sanctuaries of the hills
The vesper bells from many a summit tolled
Or woody ledge, amid whose latticed leaves
The clambering stars went in and out, now lost,
Now launched upon the greenly glowing sky
Of those strange twilights, while the freshening breeze
Woke in the place, and wrinkled here and there
The mantle of umbrageous chestnuts thrown
Across thy ruddy limbs; and, touching sight!
As by the Ave summoned up, the moon
Would oft surmount some darkling eminence,
And reign at once o'er all the silent glens!
The rests upon some castellated steep,
Where the red broken ground might almost seem
Wet with the blood of Guelph or Ghibelline,
And there to muse upon the stirring past,
While to the haply lifted eye there came
Strange emblem of the present,—slope and field
And woodland, diverse kinds, all chained in one
With shackles of green vine, a sunny green
Jocund and bright as Italy herself
Wearing her chains in helpless happiness!
Sweetest, because most solemn, was the hour
When in the sanctuaries of the hills
The vesper bells from many a summit tolled
Or woody ledge, amid whose latticed leaves
The clambering stars went in and out, now lost,
Now launched upon the greenly glowing sky
212
Woke in the place, and wrinkled here and there
The mantle of umbrageous chestnuts thrown
Across thy ruddy limbs; and, touching sight!
As by the Ave summoned up, the moon
Would oft surmount some darkling eminence,
And reign at once o'er all the silent glens!
Beautiful Mountains! not for these your gifts,
Nor for the pageantries, far off or near,
Of light and shade upon your tinted sides,
Not for the name of Dante, though revered,
Nor for the secular chronicles which ye
Illuminate, much less for works of art
Too oft subservient to voluptuous ends,—
Not for all these I fain would ornament
My verse with you, illustrious Apennines!
Nor for the pageantries, far off or near,
Of light and shade upon your tinted sides,
Not for the name of Dante, though revered,
Nor for the secular chronicles which ye
Illuminate, much less for works of art
Too oft subservient to voluptuous ends,—
Not for all these I fain would ornament
My verse with you, illustrious Apennines!
Hills of the Saints! though haply ye may mate
In gifts of natural beauty with the heights
Of the whole world,—in this, more beautiful
That ye have been more sanctified; and crowned
With a peculiar light and set apart,
A western Palestine, by mighty deeds
Of faith, and that your blue and shadowy dells
Are with miraculous presences endowed
In wild strange-featured places. In your caves
Marvellous legends have been localized
Of rescues, and of apparitions seen,
Our Lady or the Saints; and mid your folds,
Where the scant chestnut screens not from the sun
The shining waste of stones, lies buried deep,
Untravelled still, the Preternatural Land,
The famous Umbria in eternal shades,
Umbria, the refuge of pure Christian Art
When Florence served false Gods, the theatre
Of those Franciscan wonders which have stirred
With their seraphic tales the penitents
Of many an age, and cheered the godly poor.
Hills of a thousand sanctuaries! to me
It is a consolation at this hour,
And on this unkept feast, exiled alas!
Amid the silent Alps, to think of you
Trembling amid the uproar of the bells,
Which shoot, twixt heaven and earth, one jubilant thrill
From white Savona to the modest cape,
Which at Ugento dips into the sea,
And westward to the bright Calabrian shore
That smiles on Etna; and uncounted prayers
Mount with the sunrise from your steepled heights,
While, in her bays beneath, the Midland Sea
Shakes off the mists of night, and with her waves
Kisses your naked feet, in sign of love,
And worships Heaven with her elysian calm.
Fair Genoa hears, and answers from her strand,
And Florence hears, and Pisa, and the streets
Of old Bologna, and the Sienese
Join in the service, and the wild wind wafts
O'er the torn sides of Radicofani
The growing echo, while the mystic Dome
Above the broad campagna's yellow waste
Shines like a beacon, to the keen-edged heights
Of far Abruzzo; and Apulia learns
Her faith and worship from thy many arms
Which compass her about:—and then, sweet Hills!
Not now alone, but for long years to come,
If years be mine, one image shall enrich
My evening solitude, that peaceful scene
The monks on Mount Carotta may behold
Close in the shaded east, not hard to see
What time the sun hath sunk, for those who place
A rock between the glory and themselves—
Where from between two streams Loreto looks
O'er the smooth Adrian, and the swinging bell
Soothes many a sea-borne voyager, as once
That sacred promontory soothed myself,
Sailing beneath unto the ports of Greece
One starlit eve!
In gifts of natural beauty with the heights
Of the whole world,—in this, more beautiful
That ye have been more sanctified; and crowned
With a peculiar light and set apart,
A western Palestine, by mighty deeds
Of faith, and that your blue and shadowy dells
Are with miraculous presences endowed
In wild strange-featured places. In your caves
Marvellous legends have been localized
Of rescues, and of apparitions seen,
Our Lady or the Saints; and mid your folds,
Where the scant chestnut screens not from the sun
The shining waste of stones, lies buried deep,
Untravelled still, the Preternatural Land,
The famous Umbria in eternal shades,
Umbria, the refuge of pure Christian Art
When Florence served false Gods, the theatre
213
With their seraphic tales the penitents
Of many an age, and cheered the godly poor.
Hills of a thousand sanctuaries! to me
It is a consolation at this hour,
And on this unkept feast, exiled alas!
Amid the silent Alps, to think of you
Trembling amid the uproar of the bells,
Which shoot, twixt heaven and earth, one jubilant thrill
From white Savona to the modest cape,
Which at Ugento dips into the sea,
And westward to the bright Calabrian shore
That smiles on Etna; and uncounted prayers
Mount with the sunrise from your steepled heights,
While, in her bays beneath, the Midland Sea
Shakes off the mists of night, and with her waves
Kisses your naked feet, in sign of love,
And worships Heaven with her elysian calm.
Fair Genoa hears, and answers from her strand,
And Florence hears, and Pisa, and the streets
Of old Bologna, and the Sienese
Join in the service, and the wild wind wafts
O'er the torn sides of Radicofani
The growing echo, while the mystic Dome
Above the broad campagna's yellow waste
Shines like a beacon, to the keen-edged heights
Of far Abruzzo; and Apulia learns
Her faith and worship from thy many arms
Which compass her about:—and then, sweet Hills!
Not now alone, but for long years to come,
If years be mine, one image shall enrich
My evening solitude, that peaceful scene
The monks on Mount Carotta may behold
214
What time the sun hath sunk, for those who place
A rock between the glory and themselves—
Where from between two streams Loreto looks
O'er the smooth Adrian, and the swinging bell
Soothes many a sea-borne voyager, as once
That sacred promontory soothed myself,
Sailing beneath unto the ports of Greece
One starlit eve!
From Umbria's spectral woods
Was that Itinerant Monk, who far and wide
Preached with a hardy zeal in many a tongue
To the rich abbeys that had now relaxed
Their Founder's obligations; for he felt,
And as a rule acknowledged in his heart,
The pressure of the times in which he lived,
When men, both high and low, had such respect
Unto their fellows, that in every act,
Oft touchingly developed, we behold
Their sense of that lay-priesthood which compels
The Christian to communicate his good,
Yet, honoring not their impulse as a law,
Sought for the sanction of the Church to speak:
And Potentates and Peers rejoiced to die
Clad in Franciscan habits, not as though
The holy garb could stand them in the stead
Of holy hearts, nor with an ignorant hope
Of entering Heaven beneath a Church disguise,—
But by this protestation to declare
More notably unto the world, how death
Cancelled their former estimate of good.
Was that Itinerant Monk, who far and wide
Preached with a hardy zeal in many a tongue
To the rich abbeys that had now relaxed
Their Founder's obligations; for he felt,
And as a rule acknowledged in his heart,
The pressure of the times in which he lived,
When men, both high and low, had such respect
Unto their fellows, that in every act,
Oft touchingly developed, we behold
Their sense of that lay-priesthood which compels
The Christian to communicate his good,
Yet, honoring not their impulse as a law,
Sought for the sanction of the Church to speak:
And Potentates and Peers rejoiced to die
Clad in Franciscan habits, not as though
The holy garb could stand them in the stead
Of holy hearts, nor with an ignorant hope
Of entering Heaven beneath a Church disguise,—
But by this protestation to declare
More notably unto the world, how death
Cancelled their former estimate of good.
In Calder's humid vale for many a week
That wandering Preacher rested, and he heard
Full oft at noon, when silence was relaxed,
(The slumber of hot climes not needed there,
But recreating converse in its stead)
Some novel surmise canvassed by the monks
About the nameless Leper, and, the day
Ere his departure, sued the abbot's leave
To speak in secret with the unknown man,
Which he with much entreaty hardly gained.
Sir Lancelot lay that evening on his bed,
While the weak splendours of the setting sun
Fell on his wasted countenance, nor annoyed,
So impotent the beams, his half-closed eyes.
In prayer or prayer-like thought immersed, the Knight
Perceived not when the gently opened door
Closed on the Preacher, till the silent Monk,
Crossing himself, stepped forward from the shade
And stood between the window and the couch,
So that his obscure features and his head,
Transfigured in the misty sunbeam, seemed
As some appearance not of common sort,
But with a glory circled, like the Saints
For works of love remanded to the earth.
The doubtful Knight, surprised, yet all composed,
Like a sick man when in his ear you tell
Some stirring news of earth, whose littleness
His soul in its long sufferings hath outgrown,—
Demanded of the speechless Figure, whence
He came, and for what end: and in a tone
Of tremulous sweetness, most unlike the voice
Before which Chapters quaked and Mitred Heads,
The holy Preacher thus addressed the Knight.
That wandering Preacher rested, and he heard
Full oft at noon, when silence was relaxed,
215
But recreating converse in its stead)
Some novel surmise canvassed by the monks
About the nameless Leper, and, the day
Ere his departure, sued the abbot's leave
To speak in secret with the unknown man,
Which he with much entreaty hardly gained.
Sir Lancelot lay that evening on his bed,
While the weak splendours of the setting sun
Fell on his wasted countenance, nor annoyed,
So impotent the beams, his half-closed eyes.
In prayer or prayer-like thought immersed, the Knight
Perceived not when the gently opened door
Closed on the Preacher, till the silent Monk,
Crossing himself, stepped forward from the shade
And stood between the window and the couch,
So that his obscure features and his head,
Transfigured in the misty sunbeam, seemed
As some appearance not of common sort,
But with a glory circled, like the Saints
For works of love remanded to the earth.
The doubtful Knight, surprised, yet all composed,
Like a sick man when in his ear you tell
Some stirring news of earth, whose littleness
His soul in its long sufferings hath outgrown,—
Demanded of the speechless Figure, whence
He came, and for what end: and in a tone
Of tremulous sweetness, most unlike the voice
Before which Chapters quaked and Mitred Heads,
The holy Preacher thus addressed the Knight.
Sir Lancelot! the currents of our lives
Now for the third time cross, and for the last.
Ask not my name; enough that I can show
There have been passages betwixt us, such
As well may breed implicit trust in both,
And warrant open speech. Be it allowed
That I in brief resume your former years,
Not in their acts, but in the hidden course
Which they have run, and windings they have known.
There is a mercy in past sins which thou
Beyond most other men hast proved;—in this
The whole interpretation of the life
Of an Unstable Will is mostly found.
Thy one great mortal sin hath been thy shield,
By forcing lowliness upon thy soul,
Hatred of self, and penitential acts
Which in the shape of doctrine found no room,
No entrance gained in thy too happy heart.
The abundance of materials for good
Threaten perdition to a soul, unfixed
And unsustained by weight of outward griefs
Or bodily pain: a nature well may be
Too fertile in its tendencies to good,
And therein find its evil: conscience lives,
And rules in freedom, rather where the Will
Is single, and in steadiness of aim
And unity of inclination finds
The difficult balance on whose tremulous edge,
Safe as the hills, she sets her quiet throne.
And this thou wilt interpret to thyself
From out the mixed experience of the past.
Now for the third time cross, and for the last.
Ask not my name; enough that I can show
216
As well may breed implicit trust in both,
And warrant open speech. Be it allowed
That I in brief resume your former years,
Not in their acts, but in the hidden course
Which they have run, and windings they have known.
There is a mercy in past sins which thou
Beyond most other men hast proved;—in this
The whole interpretation of the life
Of an Unstable Will is mostly found.
Thy one great mortal sin hath been thy shield,
By forcing lowliness upon thy soul,
Hatred of self, and penitential acts
Which in the shape of doctrine found no room,
No entrance gained in thy too happy heart.
The abundance of materials for good
Threaten perdition to a soul, unfixed
And unsustained by weight of outward griefs
Or bodily pain: a nature well may be
Too fertile in its tendencies to good,
And therein find its evil: conscience lives,
And rules in freedom, rather where the Will
Is single, and in steadiness of aim
And unity of inclination finds
The difficult balance on whose tremulous edge,
Safe as the hills, she sets her quiet throne.
And this thou wilt interpret to thyself
From out the mixed experience of the past.
In all thine acts, from boyhood to the strength
Of thy maturer years and solid strife,
This problem was thy trial—to admit
In those great matters that concern thy peace,
That to be Safe was better than to risk
Security and all thy Former Good
To attain a Possible Height: that Good itself
Grows to be Best, but only comes thereto
Through Growth which is a natural sacrament,
And has the blessing by exclusive right;
And, finally, that Change is such an ill,
That they who scorn the appointed path of Growth,
Put all the past away, and take by storm
The fortress of perfection, either find
An empty citadel of gilded clouds,
Or in the leap from earth to heaven, by Change
Are overweighed, as by a counterpoise,
And so are lost in sin, which as a sea
Flows between Good and Best. Have not thy falls
Been just so frequent as thy vain attempts,
Upon the pinions buoyed of weak self-will,
To cross that sea and miss the tottering bridge
Of slow Attainments and of daily Acts,
Whose ends are held by Angels, and whose chains
Vibrate amid the storms, but cannot fail?
Of thy maturer years and solid strife,
This problem was thy trial—to admit
In those great matters that concern thy peace,
That to be Safe was better than to risk
Security and all thy Former Good
217
Grows to be Best, but only comes thereto
Through Growth which is a natural sacrament,
And has the blessing by exclusive right;
And, finally, that Change is such an ill,
That they who scorn the appointed path of Growth,
Put all the past away, and take by storm
The fortress of perfection, either find
An empty citadel of gilded clouds,
Or in the leap from earth to heaven, by Change
Are overweighed, as by a counterpoise,
And so are lost in sin, which as a sea
Flows between Good and Best. Have not thy falls
Been just so frequent as thy vain attempts,
Upon the pinions buoyed of weak self-will,
To cross that sea and miss the tottering bridge
Of slow Attainments and of daily Acts,
Whose ends are held by Angels, and whose chains
Vibrate amid the storms, but cannot fail?
No more of this: thy days are numbered now,
But, to the last, keep close before thy thoughts
That opposite wisdom, in neglect of which
Thy former life was moulded and so failed—
That he, who, whether in the shape of sin
Or of attainment, cuts the past away,
And drifts before his time upon the sea
Of Heavenly Mercy, enters on a voyage
Unnamed, unknown amid the elder Saints.
God's Mercy is around thee, like a deep;
Enough for thee the prospect of it now;
That prospect is a promise: to the rash
There is no sea which hath so many storms!
But, to the last, keep close before thy thoughts
That opposite wisdom, in neglect of which
Thy former life was moulded and so failed—
That he, who, whether in the shape of sin
Or of attainment, cuts the past away,
And drifts before his time upon the sea
Of Heavenly Mercy, enters on a voyage
Unnamed, unknown amid the elder Saints.
God's Mercy is around thee, like a deep;
Enough for thee the prospect of it now;
That prospect is a promise: to the rash
There is no sea which hath so many storms!
Sir Knight! we have encountered twice before,
Twice when thy life was turning on the hinge
Of Good or Ill! Rememberest thou the day
When first we met?—my face is haply changed,
But I have vouchers thou wilt recognize.
Where two roads join, not far from mighty Rome,
We hailed each other, both in mutual need
Of some companion better than our thoughts
Then were; thou from Viterbo cam'st, and I
From Bracciano, bearing in my arms
An image of our Lady: 'twas a day
Of most uncheerful kind; Soracte stood
Half veiled, and o'er that mournful plain the clouds
Hung like a level pall, whose murky folds
There was no wind to ruffle. When we came
Unto the guard-house by the Milvian bridge
The soldiers jested on my habit; one
With impious wit refused to life the chain,
Demanding toll for three, since though I bore
The Image in mine arms, it was a third,
And Rome was over-peopled in that way.
Stung by the cowardice that thus could vent
Its wanton insults on a helpless Monk,
Thou didst, albeit without thy gauntlets on,
Strike the rude Roman down, and his compeers
Stood silent by, with one safe act content,
Keeping the barrier latched to intercept
Our further progress; and I noted well
Thy tranquil words in that exciting hour;—
“Brother!” thou saidst, “'twere better to return;
Some little increase of the way is not
Much hardship to a Soldier or a Monk;
To me it matters not; and in good sooth
It were a better omen to thyself,
Thus barred from entering by the People's Gate,
To choose the Gate of Angels.” And forthwith,
Under the shadow of the Marian Mount,
Skirting the Tyber, we addressed our steps
Unto the Saxon suburb of great Rome.
Twice when thy life was turning on the hinge
218
When first we met?—my face is haply changed,
But I have vouchers thou wilt recognize.
Where two roads join, not far from mighty Rome,
We hailed each other, both in mutual need
Of some companion better than our thoughts
Then were; thou from Viterbo cam'st, and I
From Bracciano, bearing in my arms
An image of our Lady: 'twas a day
Of most uncheerful kind; Soracte stood
Half veiled, and o'er that mournful plain the clouds
Hung like a level pall, whose murky folds
There was no wind to ruffle. When we came
Unto the guard-house by the Milvian bridge
The soldiers jested on my habit; one
With impious wit refused to life the chain,
Demanding toll for three, since though I bore
The Image in mine arms, it was a third,
And Rome was over-peopled in that way.
Stung by the cowardice that thus could vent
Its wanton insults on a helpless Monk,
Thou didst, albeit without thy gauntlets on,
Strike the rude Roman down, and his compeers
Stood silent by, with one safe act content,
Keeping the barrier latched to intercept
Our further progress; and I noted well
Thy tranquil words in that exciting hour;—
“Brother!” thou saidst, “'twere better to return;
Some little increase of the way is not
Much hardship to a Soldier or a Monk;
To me it matters not; and in good sooth
It were a better omen to thyself,
Thus barred from entering by the People's Gate,
To choose the Gate of Angels.” And forthwith,
219
Skirting the Tyber, we addressed our steps
Unto the Saxon suburb of great Rome.
Slowly we walked, for we were weary; thou
By serious converse didst beguile the way,
Relating how that some few days ago
Thou wouldst not for a monk have interfered
With soldiers' sport, believing that we were
A dissolute and indulgent race, whose time
Was shared 'twixt sluggish idleness and feast.
But at Viterbo, stopped outside the gate
Which looks toward Bolsena, because the hour
Of midnight then was passed, upon the turf
Pacing in self-defence against the cold,
Thou heardst the monks within the city walls
Chanting their midnight psalms, and it was sweet,
And soothed thy weariness, and thou didst vow
A vow 'gainst thine uncharitable thoughts,
If thou shouldst haply light upon a monk
In some distress to rescue him, a vow
Which gave thee but brief credit: in reply
I told thee that in lieu of empty thanks
I rather would exhort thee to be strong
In all good purposes, for at that hour
Some mercy might be near thee, so assured
From my past life was I of this sweet truth;—
A good deed is a prophecy of good
To him who does it,—little deeming then
That in an hour that prophecy should reap
So bounteous a fulfilment! There are times
When with accumulated impulse life
Springs forward suddenly, and overshoots
The counted hours of time: and we were then
In one of those swift seasons. By such talk,
And by the Tyber fretting on its shore,
Which called to mind the lapping of thy lake
Of Kentmere mid its dry autumnal reeds,
Thy heart was softened, and in penitent mood
Thou sankest down abruptly on thy knees,
Confessing that to do a mortal sin
And not for prayer or pilgrimage, thou cam'st
Unto that Holy City. 'Twas an hour
Of joy that had no easier vent than tears,
When mid the rain, which then fell heavily,
Beneath the shelter of the ilex boughs
Thou mad'st a full confession of thy life
Humbly upon thy knees: the dripping rain
Which came on thy bare head and trickled down
Thy face, methought it was the fluent drops
Of Baptism coming into thee once more
By penance fetched from Heaven; and when we left
That ilex by the milestone, we beheld
The clouds dispart; and Rome's innumerous towers,
Like a transfigured city, seemed to smile
Upon the penitent who now drew nigh
In martial guise, but with a pilgrim's heart.
And both, the Popular Entrance roughly barred,
Entered the City by the Angels' Gate
Beneath the very shadow of the Shrine!
By serious converse didst beguile the way,
Relating how that some few days ago
Thou wouldst not for a monk have interfered
With soldiers' sport, believing that we were
A dissolute and indulgent race, whose time
Was shared 'twixt sluggish idleness and feast.
But at Viterbo, stopped outside the gate
Which looks toward Bolsena, because the hour
Of midnight then was passed, upon the turf
Pacing in self-defence against the cold,
Thou heardst the monks within the city walls
Chanting their midnight psalms, and it was sweet,
And soothed thy weariness, and thou didst vow
A vow 'gainst thine uncharitable thoughts,
If thou shouldst haply light upon a monk
In some distress to rescue him, a vow
Which gave thee but brief credit: in reply
I told thee that in lieu of empty thanks
I rather would exhort thee to be strong
In all good purposes, for at that hour
Some mercy might be near thee, so assured
From my past life was I of this sweet truth;—
A good deed is a prophecy of good
To him who does it,—little deeming then
That in an hour that prophecy should reap
So bounteous a fulfilment! There are times
When with accumulated impulse life
Springs forward suddenly, and overshoots
The counted hours of time: and we were then
In one of those swift seasons. By such talk,
220
Which called to mind the lapping of thy lake
Of Kentmere mid its dry autumnal reeds,
Thy heart was softened, and in penitent mood
Thou sankest down abruptly on thy knees,
Confessing that to do a mortal sin
And not for prayer or pilgrimage, thou cam'st
Unto that Holy City. 'Twas an hour
Of joy that had no easier vent than tears,
When mid the rain, which then fell heavily,
Beneath the shelter of the ilex boughs
Thou mad'st a full confession of thy life
Humbly upon thy knees: the dripping rain
Which came on thy bare head and trickled down
Thy face, methought it was the fluent drops
Of Baptism coming into thee once more
By penance fetched from Heaven; and when we left
That ilex by the milestone, we beheld
The clouds dispart; and Rome's innumerous towers,
Like a transfigured city, seemed to smile
Upon the penitent who now drew nigh
In martial guise, but with a pilgrim's heart.
And both, the Popular Entrance roughly barred,
Entered the City by the Angels' Gate
Beneath the very shadow of the Shrine!
Sir Lancelot! it boots not to describe
Our second meeting, when it was, or how;
Enough that I was with thee once again
When thy good Angel overtook thee, clothed
In his most favourite guise, some wandering form
Of thy lost childhood, in a trivial sign
Invested, when from o'er the low stone wall,
Which fenced the lawn, thou saw'st the bright blue line
Of noiseless wind move down the silver lake,
And with a slow encroachment steal away
The unruffled surface, till the drowsy trees
Flung off the weight of noon, the willow branch
Scattered the tinkling drops from off its sprays,
And the crisp foliage of the poplar boughs
Shook out its vocal leaves; and in that wind
Came Memory and thine Angel. By his help,
And with some poor suggestions from myself,
Thou wert permitted to retrieve the good
Which from thy fickle purpose had escaped.
Thou wilt remember well the time and place,
When thou wert hid, in opportune retreat,
Deep in the woody shore where huge Mont Blanc
Looks o'er the slopes of Savoy, and the spears
Of his invisible guards, uplifted high,
Glance through the quivering mist as though they were
In actual motion on the long white wall,
And vacillating with the lazy tread
Of weary sentinels: and that same eve
Recovering from the sickness of thy thoughts,
Thou wilt remember with what fretful pace,
As though eye-stricken by the curious crowd,
In thy distempered fancy, thou didst thread
The alleys of the purse-proud town that keeps
The outlets of the impatient Rhone, and sat'st
Upon the ramparts facing the Saleve,
Whose white-ribbed precipice the setting sun
Feebly ensanguined, while beneath thy feet
A lonely bell-frog from the reedy fosse
Rang his distinct and melancholy fall,
Not harshly, to thy travel-wearied mind
Most soothingly attuned.
Thy days are now
Fast coming to a close, yet do not fear;
By this disease shall death no access gain,
But in a calm and very silent hour
Thou shalt do battle with him, and prevail.
Our second meeting, when it was, or how;
Enough that I was with thee once again
When thy good Angel overtook thee, clothed
In his most favourite guise, some wandering form
Of thy lost childhood, in a trivial sign
Invested, when from o'er the low stone wall,
Which fenced the lawn, thou saw'st the bright blue line
221
And with a slow encroachment steal away
The unruffled surface, till the drowsy trees
Flung off the weight of noon, the willow branch
Scattered the tinkling drops from off its sprays,
And the crisp foliage of the poplar boughs
Shook out its vocal leaves; and in that wind
Came Memory and thine Angel. By his help,
And with some poor suggestions from myself,
Thou wert permitted to retrieve the good
Which from thy fickle purpose had escaped.
Thou wilt remember well the time and place,
When thou wert hid, in opportune retreat,
Deep in the woody shore where huge Mont Blanc
Looks o'er the slopes of Savoy, and the spears
Of his invisible guards, uplifted high,
Glance through the quivering mist as though they were
In actual motion on the long white wall,
And vacillating with the lazy tread
Of weary sentinels: and that same eve
Recovering from the sickness of thy thoughts,
Thou wilt remember with what fretful pace,
As though eye-stricken by the curious crowd,
In thy distempered fancy, thou didst thread
The alleys of the purse-proud town that keeps
The outlets of the impatient Rhone, and sat'st
Upon the ramparts facing the Saleve,
Whose white-ribbed precipice the setting sun
Feebly ensanguined, while beneath thy feet
A lonely bell-frog from the reedy fosse
Rang his distinct and melancholy fall,
Not harshly, to thy travel-wearied mind
Most soothingly attuned.
222
Fast coming to a close, yet do not fear;
By this disease shall death no access gain,
But in a calm and very silent hour
Thou shalt do battle with him, and prevail.
Long years ago it chanced that I was sent,
A Novice in our Order, to attend
The sufferers in a lazar-house, then filled
With lepers like thyself; and when I saw
The strange appearance and the loathsome marks
Of that disease, I turned my back and fled,
And in my haste a wooden Crucifix
Fell from my hands, and broke upon the ground.
For this fastidious weakness I imposed
Austerest penance on myself, and vowed
If I, by such a chance as well might wear
The aspect of Divine Intention, found
A leper near me, I would kiss his sores
In honour of the charity of Christ:
And whether for temptation of my pride,
Or as a guerdon for my vow, it so hath been
That ever from the hour of my embrace
The sickness hath begun to disappear.
And therefore, Brother! I embrace thee now
As freely as I would a rosy child,
In expiation of my former sin,
And honour of the charity of Christ!
A Novice in our Order, to attend
The sufferers in a lazar-house, then filled
With lepers like thyself; and when I saw
The strange appearance and the loathsome marks
Of that disease, I turned my back and fled,
And in my haste a wooden Crucifix
Fell from my hands, and broke upon the ground.
For this fastidious weakness I imposed
Austerest penance on myself, and vowed
If I, by such a chance as well might wear
The aspect of Divine Intention, found
A leper near me, I would kiss his sores
In honour of the charity of Christ:
And whether for temptation of my pride,
Or as a guerdon for my vow, it so hath been
That ever from the hour of my embrace
The sickness hath begun to disappear.
And therefore, Brother! I embrace thee now
As freely as I would a rosy child,
In expiation of my former sin,
And honour of the charity of Christ!
The shaded face, the uncertain stream of words,
The quiet agitation of his voice,
The clasping arms, the glory-circled head—
Was all a bodiless vision? Was that form
A creature of the sunbeam that had passed,
And which had faded with the fading light?
So like a silent-footed shadow came
The unlooked-for Apparition, so it went
As though it melted with the sinking ray.
And then the piping of the blackbirds grew
With such a gradual increase on his ear,
That, like a river whose far sound we lose,
Yet so recover that it does not seem
To suffer interruption, those sweet songs
So brought his former to his present thoughts,
That they o'erflowed the interval between.
Then was it all the sick man's phantasy?
O no! the pressure of the Monk's embrace
Still glowed upon him; still the fervid kiss
Felt like a seal upon his leprous brow.
The quiet agitation of his voice,
The clasping arms, the glory-circled head—
Was all a bodiless vision? Was that form
A creature of the sunbeam that had passed,
And which had faded with the fading light?
So like a silent-footed shadow came
223
As though it melted with the sinking ray.
And then the piping of the blackbirds grew
With such a gradual increase on his ear,
That, like a river whose far sound we lose,
Yet so recover that it does not seem
To suffer interruption, those sweet songs
So brought his former to his present thoughts,
That they o'erflowed the interval between.
Then was it all the sick man's phantasy?
O no! the pressure of the Monk's embrace
Still glowed upon him; still the fervid kiss
Felt like a seal upon his leprous brow.
Sir Lancelot slept, and in his sleep he dreamed;
Upon the darkness of the night he saw
Within an oval ring of cherubs' heads
The Blessed Mother with her Holy Child.
All mortal she appeared, and with a mien
Of very gracious woe, or wistful joy
Which rises from unconsummated hopes,
And is itself a suffering, such as might
Have been her aspect, when upon the Child
She gazed and gazed, as old Saint Simeon spake.
So to Sir Lancelot's eyes she was vouchsafed.
She, stooping from the luminous cincture, placed
Her radiant Burden in his outstretched arms:
And all was dark that moment to his sight,
Dark as the darkness after lightning, when
No thunder occupies the other sense
To throw the vision off its rigid guard.
Upon the darkness of the night he saw
Within an oval ring of cherubs' heads
The Blessed Mother with her Holy Child.
All mortal she appeared, and with a mien
Of very gracious woe, or wistful joy
Which rises from unconsummated hopes,
And is itself a suffering, such as might
Have been her aspect, when upon the Child
She gazed and gazed, as old Saint Simeon spake.
So to Sir Lancelot's eyes she was vouchsafed.
She, stooping from the luminous cincture, placed
Her radiant Burden in his outstretched arms:
And all was dark that moment to his sight,
Dark as the darkness after lightning, when
No thunder occupies the other sense
To throw the vision off its rigid guard.
But from the time of that Embrace, each day
The vigour of his blood returned, and drove
The leprosy before it; and each night
The Vision was vouchsafed unto his eyes;
And, as the Saviour's Infancy had been
An inward balm of slow distilling thoughts,
Which were a medicine to his failing heart,
So now the nightly visit of the Dream
Infused into his slumber such a peace,
That Night and Day seemed rivals in the work
Of restoration, and with emulous speed
Toiled for each other, till in nine short days,
Emancipated from his gloomy cell,
He was once more allowed the inspiring joy
Of outward sunshine and the earth's green face.
The vigour of his blood returned, and drove
The leprosy before it; and each night
The Vision was vouchsafed unto his eyes;
224
An inward balm of slow distilling thoughts,
Which were a medicine to his failing heart,
So now the nightly visit of the Dream
Infused into his slumber such a peace,
That Night and Day seemed rivals in the work
Of restoration, and with emulous speed
Toiled for each other, till in nine short days,
Emancipated from his gloomy cell,
He was once more allowed the inspiring joy
Of outward sunshine and the earth's green face.
There is a cloister by the river side,
A cloister of thin pillared trees which stand
So close they hinder one another's growth;
And up the branchless stems the sallow moss
Encroaches yearly, and across the stream
The dull red rocks with dripping cowls of weed
O'erhang that belt of wood: and O how fair
From out the covert seem the brilliant meads
And quiet abbey, when the setting sun,
Piercing the silent shades, comes unawares
Through the green leaves, and many a scattered trunk
Is fluted with the transitory gold.
A cloister of thin pillared trees which stand
So close they hinder one another's growth;
And up the branchless stems the sallow moss
Encroaches yearly, and across the stream
The dull red rocks with dripping cowls of weed
O'erhang that belt of wood: and O how fair
From out the covert seem the brilliant meads
And quiet abbey, when the setting sun,
Piercing the silent shades, comes unawares
Through the green leaves, and many a scattered trunk
Is fluted with the transitory gold.
There many an hour Sir Lancelot enjoyed
The cautious happiness, as of a child
Forgiven, that timorous buoyancy which springs
In the tamed spirit of a man released
From the sick-room, who slowly gathering strength,
Lives in the partial liberty of hope,
With senses through his bodily weakness brought
In unconstrained subjection to his soul,
And mind sufficiently above the world
To be at peace therewith. The voices borne
From out the village hostelry hard by,
The sportive cries of children on the bridge,
The sounds of human labour faint and far,
The evening thrush, the dashing of the stream,
The almost silent gambols of the hares
In the tall grass,—these were his simple joys
Which called him not to lift his downcast eyes
From the brown path; for in his feeble state—
Sick men full oft have proved it to themselves,
And old men too—sound was to him far more
Than sight, as being more passively received.
The cautious happiness, as of a child
Forgiven, that timorous buoyancy which springs
In the tamed spirit of a man released
From the sick-room, who slowly gathering strength,
Lives in the partial liberty of hope,
With senses through his bodily weakness brought
In unconstrained subjection to his soul,
And mind sufficiently above the world
To be at peace therewith. The voices borne
225
The sportive cries of children on the bridge,
The sounds of human labour faint and far,
The evening thrush, the dashing of the stream,
The almost silent gambols of the hares
In the tall grass,—these were his simple joys
Which called him not to lift his downcast eyes
From the brown path; for in his feeble state—
Sick men full oft have proved it to themselves,
And old men too—sound was to him far more
Than sight, as being more passively received.
Along that sounding cloister once again
He passed unto his little hermitage.
There was the mystic vale,—the broken crest
Of that dull mountain, and the blended sounds
Of earth and sea, wild birds and bleating flocks,
The pale green grass, and tightly-rooted ferns:—
All was the same, and were it not that he
Was conscious of a change, the past might seem
The sicknesses we suffer, or the deaths
We die, when in the tyrannous embrace
Of those mysterious panics of the night,
The penal dreams which follow careless days,
As if, alas! we were already judged,
And that our doom was of eternal woe,—
Colossal fears, which come to cleanse the soul,
And scare it deeper down into itself.
He passed unto his little hermitage.
There was the mystic vale,—the broken crest
Of that dull mountain, and the blended sounds
Of earth and sea, wild birds and bleating flocks,
The pale green grass, and tightly-rooted ferns:—
All was the same, and were it not that he
Was conscious of a change, the past might seem
The sicknesses we suffer, or the deaths
We die, when in the tyrannous embrace
Of those mysterious panics of the night,
The penal dreams which follow careless days,
As if, alas! we were already judged,
And that our doom was of eternal woe,—
Colossal fears, which come to cleanse the soul,
And scare it deeper down into itself.
| Sir Lancelot | |