Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
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DEDICATION. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Sir Lancelot |  |
ix
DEDICATION.
Dear Brother! while the murmurs of my song
In refluent waves were dying on my ear,
The spoken music blending with the thrills
Of that unuttered sweetness, which remains
A cherished refuse in the poet's soul,
Still to distinguish him from all the hearts
To which, by love constrained, he hath resigned
So much of his interior self,—and while
I listened, like a practised mountaineer,
To my own voice rebounding from the heights
Of song, redoubled and prolonged returns
Of pleasant echoes,—from the far-off South
Came welcome news of thee, my dearest Friend!
In refluent waves were dying on my ear,
The spoken music blending with the thrills
Of that unuttered sweetness, which remains
A cherished refuse in the poet's soul,
Still to distinguish him from all the hearts
To which, by love constrained, he hath resigned
So much of his interior self,—and while
I listened, like a practised mountaineer,
To my own voice rebounding from the heights
Of song, redoubled and prolonged returns
Of pleasant echoes,—from the far-off South
Came welcome news of thee, my dearest Friend!
Thou spakest in thine own most beautiful way,
And in the sunny visionary style
Of thy strange solemn language, of the lights
In those new skies, the Cross with starry arms,
Palpably bending at the dead of night,
The star-built Altar, Noe's sheeny Dove
Still winging her incessant flight on high,
The definite Triangle, and other such,
Girt with huge spaces of unstarry blue,
As sacred precincts round about them spread,
Through which the eye, from all obstruction clear,
Travels the heavens at midnight, and salutes
Those orbèd constellations hung thereon
Like festal lamps on some cathedral wall;—
Emblems of Christian things, not pagan names
That nightly desecrate our northern skies.
Thus with thy spirit softly overshadowed
By the most brilliant umbrage of those stars,
Thou spakest of the snowy albatross,
Sailing in circuits round thy lonely bark,
Fondling its foamy prow as if it deemed,
And not unjustly, its companionship
A solace to thee on the desert waves;
And underneath the great Australian trees
A light was in strange creatures' wondering eyes,—
How solemnly interpreted by thee!
O it was all so beautiful, so strange,
And with its current intercepted oft
With place for some endearment of old love,
I thought in thy wild strain how passing sweet
The poetry of those far southern seas!
And in the sunny visionary style
Of thy strange solemn language, of the lights
In those new skies, the Cross with starry arms,
Palpably bending at the dead of night,
The star-built Altar, Noe's sheeny Dove
Still winging her incessant flight on high,
The definite Triangle, and other such,
Girt with huge spaces of unstarry blue,
As sacred precincts round about them spread,
Through which the eye, from all obstruction clear,
Travels the heavens at midnight, and salutes
Those orbèd constellations hung thereon
Like festal lamps on some cathedral wall;—
x
That nightly desecrate our northern skies.
Thus with thy spirit softly overshadowed
By the most brilliant umbrage of those stars,
Thou spakest of the snowy albatross,
Sailing in circuits round thy lonely bark,
Fondling its foamy prow as if it deemed,
And not unjustly, its companionship
A solace to thee on the desert waves;
And underneath the great Australian trees
A light was in strange creatures' wondering eyes,—
How solemnly interpreted by thee!
O it was all so beautiful, so strange,
And with its current intercepted oft
With place for some endearment of old love,
I thought in thy wild strain how passing sweet
The poetry of those far southern seas!
Few days elapsed: there came another strain,
Fresh poetry from those far southern seas!
It sang of sickness and the fear of death,
Of suffering gently borne for love of Christ,
Who calls us to His service as He wills,
Not as we choose; and, mingling with the strain,
Broke forth thy simple and courageous words
And peaceful trust, as happy and as bold
As a child's prayer. And wilt thou think it wrong,
That, when I prayed and wept and deeply mourned,
There was a pleasure in my mourning, such
As I have never felt in love before?
For who that doth remember thee, how pale!
How gentle! but would smile for very faith,
As Abraham smiled, at thine heroic words,
Which mate thine outward aspect so unfitly?
Ah! that was poetry tenfold more sweet
Than when thou sangst of stars, and ocean birds,
And wondering creatures underneath the trees!
Fresh poetry from those far southern seas!
It sang of sickness and the fear of death,
Of suffering gently borne for love of Christ,
Who calls us to His service as He wills,
Not as we choose; and, mingling with the strain,
Broke forth thy simple and courageous words
And peaceful trust, as happy and as bold
As a child's prayer. And wilt thou think it wrong,
That, when I prayed and wept and deeply mourned,
There was a pleasure in my mourning, such
As I have never felt in love before?
For who that doth remember thee, how pale!
How gentle! but would smile for very faith,
As Abraham smiled, at thine heroic words,
Which mate thine outward aspect so unfitly?
Ah! that was poetry tenfold more sweet
xi
And wondering creatures underneath the trees!
O more than Brother! my impetuous heart,
Nurtured too much on volatile impulses,
In loving thee hath learned still more to love,
And study with a covetous design,
The science of thy quiet nature, calm,
Profoundly calm amid all cares and doubts,
As though thy faculties had never had,
Or left and lost in thy baptismal font,
All power of self-disturbance, so serene
The unsuspicious greatness of thy virtue,
Thy simple-tongued humility, and love
Too self-forgetting to have much of fear!
Like one who sits upon a windy steep,
And looks into a placid lake below
Bright in the breezeless vale, so have I gazed,
With long affection fathomed to its depths,
Into the inspired tranquillity of heart
On thy scarce ruffled innocence bestowed.
Dear Friend! I speak bold words of praise, and tears
Warrant my boldness, for I know full well
Thine eye will never see what would have pained
Thy lowliness: that supernatural calm
Of thy pure nature will be deeper still,
Unutterably deepened, ere my words,
Not written as to one alive, shall reach
The island of thy gradual martyrdom.
O no! thou wilt be once more at my side,
A help to my weak purposes, an arm
Invisible, in intercession strong,
No part of this half dead, half dying world,
But to the region of the living gone
To pray for us, and to be reached by prayer.
When these poor lines have travelled to that shore,
Distance and exile will have fallen from thee,
Sun-withered wreaths, before the eye of death;
Thou wilt be in my neighbourhood again,
Again come home unto my soul's embrace,
No more the frail and wasting Missionary,
But the high Mate of Angels and of Saints!
Nurtured too much on volatile impulses,
In loving thee hath learned still more to love,
And study with a covetous design,
The science of thy quiet nature, calm,
Profoundly calm amid all cares and doubts,
As though thy faculties had never had,
Or left and lost in thy baptismal font,
All power of self-disturbance, so serene
The unsuspicious greatness of thy virtue,
Thy simple-tongued humility, and love
Too self-forgetting to have much of fear!
Like one who sits upon a windy steep,
And looks into a placid lake below
Bright in the breezeless vale, so have I gazed,
With long affection fathomed to its depths,
Into the inspired tranquillity of heart
On thy scarce ruffled innocence bestowed.
Dear Friend! I speak bold words of praise, and tears
Warrant my boldness, for I know full well
Thine eye will never see what would have pained
Thy lowliness: that supernatural calm
Of thy pure nature will be deeper still,
Unutterably deepened, ere my words,
Not written as to one alive, shall reach
The island of thy gradual martyrdom.
O no! thou wilt be once more at my side,
A help to my weak purposes, an arm
Invisible, in intercession strong,
No part of this half dead, half dying world,
But to the region of the living gone
xii
When these poor lines have travelled to that shore,
Distance and exile will have fallen from thee,
Sun-withered wreaths, before the eye of death;
Thou wilt be in my neighbourhood again,
Again come home unto my soul's embrace,
No more the frail and wasting Missionary,
But the high Mate of Angels and of Saints!
Then let this song be dedicate to thee!
If life be thine, forgive these words of praise,—
Thou knowest they are my friendship's first offence.
Should not this song be thine, all mountain-born?
Are not its verses laden with sweet names,
Which to our hearts are poems in themselves?
And unnamed landscapes are there, singular trees,
Spots of remembered sunshine or soft shade,
And unforgotten fabrics in the clouds,
Farms on the heath, and fields beside the town,
Haunts by the mere, choice gardens of the poor
Oft chance-discovered, O how much beloved
And prized by us, as luxuries that belonged
To over-tasked yet cheerful cottagers
Whose servants we, as priests, would fain become!
Such things are ever floating on my song,
Sequestered places, household scenes, inviting
Through language more descriptive than their names
A pleased detection from thy mindful heart.
Did we not learn our poetry together,
And sing those spousal verses to each other,
Among the glorious hills whose kindling heights
Gleam like familiar beacons on its course?
Was there, except thy modesty, and growth
In meek self-sacrifice for Holy Church,
Was there one difference 'twixt our blended souls?
O my sweet, honoured Friend! admiring love
Sues—thou remember'st how it spake of old
By the chill-flowing Rothay in the night—
Acceptance now for this religious song.
Brother! thou wert within me and around me
As it sunk down, and in my love for thee,—
Admonished by thy sufferings to a strain
Even yet more Christian,—in my love for thee
The measure tremulously fell away,
Falling, where I would leave it now for ever,
Even at thy feet, to be mine image there,
With docile admiration looking up
Hourly in thy perpetual downcast eyes!
If life be thine, forgive these words of praise,—
Thou knowest they are my friendship's first offence.
Should not this song be thine, all mountain-born?
Are not its verses laden with sweet names,
Which to our hearts are poems in themselves?
And unnamed landscapes are there, singular trees,
Spots of remembered sunshine or soft shade,
And unforgotten fabrics in the clouds,
Farms on the heath, and fields beside the town,
Haunts by the mere, choice gardens of the poor
Oft chance-discovered, O how much beloved
And prized by us, as luxuries that belonged
To over-tasked yet cheerful cottagers
Whose servants we, as priests, would fain become!
Such things are ever floating on my song,
Sequestered places, household scenes, inviting
Through language more descriptive than their names
A pleased detection from thy mindful heart.
Did we not learn our poetry together,
And sing those spousal verses to each other,
Among the glorious hills whose kindling heights
Gleam like familiar beacons on its course?
Was there, except thy modesty, and growth
In meek self-sacrifice for Holy Church,
Was there one difference 'twixt our blended souls?
xiii
Sues—thou remember'st how it spake of old
By the chill-flowing Rothay in the night—
Acceptance now for this religious song.
Brother! thou wert within me and around me
As it sunk down, and in my love for thee,—
Admonished by thy sufferings to a strain
Even yet more Christian,—in my love for thee
The measure tremulously fell away,
Falling, where I would leave it now for ever,
Even at thy feet, to be mine image there,
With docile admiration looking up
Hourly in thy perpetual downcast eyes!
| Sir Lancelot | |