Sir Lancelot A Legend of The Middle Ages. By Frederick William Faber: Second edition |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | BOOK IV.
THE JOURNEY. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
 | Sir Lancelot |  |
81
BOOK IV. THE JOURNEY.
83
Not when in glittering mail along the streets
Of Tarsus, conqueror in the tournament
Sir Lancelot reined in his Arab steed,—
Not when, with dreams of love and war entranced,
In the clear moonbeam by his tent he stood
That night, and saw cold-running Cydnus sleep
Mid citron groves (the frigid stream that gave
A well-nigh mortal chill to Philip's son,
And laid the imperial Frederick in the tomb,
What time he expiated in Crusade
His disobedience to the will of Rome,
In Venice humbled) while far off the Falls
Solemn disturbance made among the woods,
And snowy Taurus glimmered like a star,
Or some celestial beacon newly raised,
The moon outfacing on the throne of night,—
Not then when youth its pleasant firstfruits paid,
And manhood with the ways of men began
To deal, with sense of power and growing pride
And inward exultation, was the Knight
So blythe, or by magnificence of thought
So loftily above the world sustained,
As when, a Penitent in sackcloth shirt
And pilgrim's mantle worn, the day and night
Came to him in that green and lonesome vale.
Firmer his step, and, as more happy now,
So was he slower in his walk, and apt,
By pressing thoughts arrested, to stand still
For long together, by his little bay
Or on the moors or in the shady groves,—
A pensive shadow, flitting now, now still:
Where'er the thought detained him there he stood.
Of Tarsus, conqueror in the tournament
Sir Lancelot reined in his Arab steed,—
Not when, with dreams of love and war entranced,
In the clear moonbeam by his tent he stood
That night, and saw cold-running Cydnus sleep
Mid citron groves (the frigid stream that gave
A well-nigh mortal chill to Philip's son,
And laid the imperial Frederick in the tomb,
What time he expiated in Crusade
His disobedience to the will of Rome,
In Venice humbled) while far off the Falls
Solemn disturbance made among the woods,
And snowy Taurus glimmered like a star,
Or some celestial beacon newly raised,
The moon outfacing on the throne of night,—
Not then when youth its pleasant firstfruits paid,
And manhood with the ways of men began
To deal, with sense of power and growing pride
And inward exultation, was the Knight
So blythe, or by magnificence of thought
So loftily above the world sustained,
As when, a Penitent in sackcloth shirt
And pilgrim's mantle worn, the day and night
Came to him in that green and lonesome vale.
Firmer his step, and, as more happy now,
84
By pressing thoughts arrested, to stand still
For long together, by his little bay
Or on the moors or in the shady groves,—
A pensive shadow, flitting now, now still:
Where'er the thought detained him there he stood.
The mysteries of self, which to the eye
Of conscience half alarmed, a lonely life,
Tedious expositor! full oft unfolds,
'Twere vain to sing. Who hath the sounding line,
Prophet or bard, or haply both in one,
If union such be left, who hath the line
Wherewith to fathom the profound abyss,
Or height, if so it should be rather named,
Of speculation won in solitude?
A lesson terrible to learn and long,
Dismal the school, magnificent the prize,
Is that concentrating of the faculties
Of heart and mind in loneliness acquired.
No throng of worldly objects breaks the array
Of silent thought; no many-colored life
Stands in the front of God and intercepts
The awful tokens of His Presence here;
Nor cares benumb the sensibilities
Then quick to recognize the touch of Heaven
Where'er the solemn contact be vouchsafed,
Oft given, and oft unheeded, in the glare
And flying tumult of our outward lives,
Save when divine afflictions interpose,
And open Heaven in vision to the soul
By dropping darkness o'er the dazzling world.
Of conscience half alarmed, a lonely life,
Tedious expositor! full oft unfolds,
'Twere vain to sing. Who hath the sounding line,
Prophet or bard, or haply both in one,
If union such be left, who hath the line
Wherewith to fathom the profound abyss,
Or height, if so it should be rather named,
Of speculation won in solitude?
A lesson terrible to learn and long,
Dismal the school, magnificent the prize,
Is that concentrating of the faculties
Of heart and mind in loneliness acquired.
No throng of worldly objects breaks the array
Of silent thought; no many-colored life
Stands in the front of God and intercepts
The awful tokens of His Presence here;
Nor cares benumb the sensibilities
Then quick to recognize the touch of Heaven
Where'er the solemn contact be vouchsafed,
Oft given, and oft unheeded, in the glare
And flying tumult of our outward lives,
Save when divine afflictions interpose,
And open Heaven in vision to the soul
By dropping darkness o'er the dazzling world.
Meanwhile the herd of lower faculties,
Of earthly fashion, slumber undisturbed.
No puzzling multitude of avenues
Lead to the regal chambers of the soul;
But one alone stands open, ever watched
By silence, or, which is a thing as still,
The sounds of nature undisplaced by man.
And thus the soul before the Eye of God
Is bare and open, as the midnight plain
Lies vacant to the shining of the moon.
And those few powers of mind, which have been shaped
In their original form as instruments
Of such transcending intercourse, become,
When used alone, of comprehensive reach
And more than mortal grasp. Even as the blind
For one dull organ gain a recompence
In the strange quickening of some other power,
In musical perception of sweet sounds,
Or in a marvellous discernment given
Unto the sense of touch; so doth the soul,
Nurtured in thoughtful solitude, perceive
Its nobler faculties thus magnified
By concentration and adoring prayer,
Whose energy is husbanded, nor lost
In spendthrift joys by fickle sense pursued,
Or poor delights of thought which gilds but earth,
And sings in lazy bowers of war and love,
And than such vain excitement seeks no more.
Of earthly fashion, slumber undisturbed.
No puzzling multitude of avenues
85
But one alone stands open, ever watched
By silence, or, which is a thing as still,
The sounds of nature undisplaced by man.
And thus the soul before the Eye of God
Is bare and open, as the midnight plain
Lies vacant to the shining of the moon.
And those few powers of mind, which have been shaped
In their original form as instruments
Of such transcending intercourse, become,
When used alone, of comprehensive reach
And more than mortal grasp. Even as the blind
For one dull organ gain a recompence
In the strange quickening of some other power,
In musical perception of sweet sounds,
Or in a marvellous discernment given
Unto the sense of touch; so doth the soul,
Nurtured in thoughtful solitude, perceive
Its nobler faculties thus magnified
By concentration and adoring prayer,
Whose energy is husbanded, nor lost
In spendthrift joys by fickle sense pursued,
Or poor delights of thought which gilds but earth,
And sings in lazy bowers of war and love,
And than such vain excitement seeks no more.
For seven long years Sir Lancelot now had been
The mate of solitude, and I would fain,
In unambitious verse as best beseems
The thoughts I must encounter on my path,
And names employ of dreadest sanctity,
Somewhat of this interior life depict,
By language hardly compassed, yet the soul,
Through feeling and the weakness of my words
Informed in part, the rest may well divine.
The mate of solitude, and I would fain,
In unambitious verse as best beseems
The thoughts I must encounter on my path,
And names employ of dreadest sanctity,
Somewhat of this interior life depict,
By language hardly compassed, yet the soul,
Through feeling and the weakness of my words
86
Unwise is he who in the calm of age
Lightly regards the doings of his youth,
And, with false wisdom meting out the past,
Counts it but as the memory of a land
Through which he travelled in his way; but far,
Far more unwise is he who, being young,
Conceives a disesteem of youth, affects
To speak dishonorably of its powers,
And to deny that, in its changeful moods,
There dwells creative order that evokes
The spiritual fabric of our lives
From that wild sea of impulse, which may boast,
Though hard to find, a true philosophy.
Lightly regards the doings of his youth,
And, with false wisdom meting out the past,
Counts it but as the memory of a land
Through which he travelled in his way; but far,
Far more unwise is he who, being young,
Conceives a disesteem of youth, affects
To speak dishonorably of its powers,
And to deny that, in its changeful moods,
There dwells creative order that evokes
The spiritual fabric of our lives
From that wild sea of impulse, which may boast,
Though hard to find, a true philosophy.
How joyously the waters of the world
With many murmurs sound about our youth,
As o'er the haven bar it shoots, and turns
Eastward or westward with uncertain will!
But, after leaving port, full oft there comes
In the first night a silent hand which gives
The helm a new direction, and at dawn,
Sole evidence of change! we see the towers
And lighthouse of our childhood's harbor, touched
With sunbeams in an unexpected place.
With many murmurs sound about our youth,
As o'er the haven bar it shoots, and turns
Eastward or westward with uncertain will!
But, after leaving port, full oft there comes
In the first night a silent hand which gives
The helm a new direction, and at dawn,
Sole evidence of change! we see the towers
And lighthouse of our childhood's harbor, touched
With sunbeams in an unexpected place.
Nought is there so minute, no wish so weak,
But at that season it may change our course
And shift our stars; nay, sometimes it may chance
A dream will turn the rudder of our lives.
But at that season it may change our course
And shift our stars; nay, sometimes it may chance
A dream will turn the rudder of our lives.
Thus in the heat of his chivalric youth
Sir Lancelot had dreamed a vivid dream,
Which gave some color to his after-years.
Down in the valley of the Drave the tents
Were pitched in sunset's eye, while to the west
The opening gorge with such resplendent dower
Of myriad hues was filled, as best beseemed
The climbing road whose end was Italy,
The paradise of European dreams,
And goal of envious tribes. Sir Lancelot,
By what thoughts urged young love alone may tell,
Fled from the noisy wassail of the camp,
And up the sounding dell of Siser went,
The Drave's romantic tributary; there
The moonless night came on him mid the pines.
The mountains towered above, or rather hung,
And in the luminous darkness seemed to grow
To supernatural bulk, and to contract
A frown each moment deepening: to the south
A crescent Alp rose up with fractured cove,
In some contortion of the deluge rent
And disembowelled, or in olden time
The mouth of subterraneous flame, whose lips,
Chafed by the fiery tongue, had fallen in.
A sheeny glacier on the creviced slope
Its icy talons fixed, and down the hill
With annual progress like a tortoise crawled,
Doubtless is crawling now, while summer noon
And its relaxing ether smooth the path,
A path more slowly travelled in the frosts
Of winter, yet incessantly pursued,
By night and day the varying seasons round.
The feet of destiny are not more slow
Than that mute creature; haply not so sure,
If the calm intercession of the Saints,
Or prayer of living Church, arrest her steps.
Sir Lancelot had dreamed a vivid dream,
Which gave some color to his after-years.
Down in the valley of the Drave the tents
Were pitched in sunset's eye, while to the west
The opening gorge with such resplendent dower
87
The climbing road whose end was Italy,
The paradise of European dreams,
And goal of envious tribes. Sir Lancelot,
By what thoughts urged young love alone may tell,
Fled from the noisy wassail of the camp,
And up the sounding dell of Siser went,
The Drave's romantic tributary; there
The moonless night came on him mid the pines.
The mountains towered above, or rather hung,
And in the luminous darkness seemed to grow
To supernatural bulk, and to contract
A frown each moment deepening: to the south
A crescent Alp rose up with fractured cove,
In some contortion of the deluge rent
And disembowelled, or in olden time
The mouth of subterraneous flame, whose lips,
Chafed by the fiery tongue, had fallen in.
A sheeny glacier on the creviced slope
Its icy talons fixed, and down the hill
With annual progress like a tortoise crawled,
Doubtless is crawling now, while summer noon
And its relaxing ether smooth the path,
A path more slowly travelled in the frosts
Of winter, yet incessantly pursued,
By night and day the varying seasons round.
The feet of destiny are not more slow
Than that mute creature; haply not so sure,
If the calm intercession of the Saints,
Or prayer of living Church, arrest her steps.
The white-robed mountain shed a wild wan light
In lieu of the absent moon, such light mayhap
As earth to other worlds may be ordained
Itself to shed. A thousand glittering stars
Were braided in the pinetops or impaled
Upon the spearlike leaves, and with the trees
Appeared upon the low night-wind to sway.
And with inwoven dances, such as were
By feet of Delian maidens once performed,
When they set forth the wanderings of their isle
In mythic steps to tinkling citherns timed,
The fireflies played around the pillared stems,
And bore about their lanterns of green light,
Advancing and receding while the eye
Measured by them the depth of sylvan gloom.
And one small globe, in purple darkness set
Like emeralds, with a statelier measure wheeled
Over the foaming Siser, which o'er leaped
With gleamy flash a sheer and dizzy rock;
While with the breeze that stirred the withered leaves
Cool gusts of incense crept about the wood.
In lieu of the absent moon, such light mayhap
As earth to other worlds may be ordained
Itself to shed. A thousand glittering stars
88
Upon the spearlike leaves, and with the trees
Appeared upon the low night-wind to sway.
And with inwoven dances, such as were
By feet of Delian maidens once performed,
When they set forth the wanderings of their isle
In mythic steps to tinkling citherns timed,
The fireflies played around the pillared stems,
And bore about their lanterns of green light,
Advancing and receding while the eye
Measured by them the depth of sylvan gloom.
And one small globe, in purple darkness set
Like emeralds, with a statelier measure wheeled
Over the foaming Siser, which o'er leaped
With gleamy flash a sheer and dizzy rock;
While with the breeze that stirred the withered leaves
Cool gusts of incense crept about the wood.
There did Sir Lancelot sleep, his ample tent
Of leaning pinetops was, made fast with stars.
He slighted not the fragrant floor of earth,
Nor feared the innocuous dews of summer night.
He sank to sleep, while images swam round
Of dearest import: to his eye there came
The hall at Heversham, and rushy fields
That seaward sloped; and in his ear the Kent
Accustomed murmurs made among the boughs,
While now and then with light and sudden splash
A wakeful stag would bound across the stream,
And seek a lair among the dewy fern:
And with Ethida's name upon his lips
The Knight passed onward to the fields of sleep,
Where a sweet vision waited his approach.
Of leaning pinetops was, made fast with stars.
He slighted not the fragrant floor of earth,
Nor feared the innocuous dews of summer night.
He sank to sleep, while images swam round
Of dearest import: to his eye there came
The hall at Heversham, and rushy fields
That seaward sloped; and in his ear the Kent
Accustomed murmurs made among the boughs,
While now and then with light and sudden splash
A wakeful stag would bound across the stream,
And seek a lair among the dewy fern:
And with Ethida's name upon his lips
The Knight passed onward to the fields of sleep,
Where a sweet vision waited his approach.
His eye, so seemed it in his slumber, strove
To pierce the gloomy pinewood where it stretched,
In misty length, a single sombre nave:
While, one behind another ranged, the rings
Of fireflies swung in circles of green light,
Like rocking lamps suspended from a roof.
There suddenly among the boughs the wind
Breathed a last sigh, and with it swept away
Those living stars, and all was silence round,
The silentness of an expecting dream.
Then at the close of that cathedral nave
A white and radiant vapor softly grew,
Dazzling and formless, which with silvery gleam
Lay like a tremulous pavement round the stems.
Far off, resplendent as an Altar-piece
Illumined from behind, a Figure rose
Of beauty such as art hath ne'er conceived,
The Virgin Mother with her Infant Son.
Upon her countenance, rounded like the moon,
An orb of open features, was impressed
The secret of her fortunes, which transcend
The loftiest surmise of created mind.
The sweet maternal instinct there divulged
In deep impassioned silence, to whose depth
Each lineament the while serenely lends
An utterance almost vocal, then appeared
Calmed and arrested by profounder thoughts,
And by the intense tranquillity of bliss
Brooding in chaste enjoyment on itself.
And yet not wholly wanting was the look
Of pensive self-collection that dispersed
On the celestial seeming of her face
A beautiful timidity, through which
Her mortal birth o'er every feature reigned
Triumphant, and harmoniously o'erruled
The ineffable aspect which her heavenly lot
Upon her face transferred, where extasy,
Divinely glowing, by remembrances
Of grief was deeply moved, yet not displaced.
89
In misty length, a single sombre nave:
While, one behind another ranged, the rings
Of fireflies swung in circles of green light,
Like rocking lamps suspended from a roof.
There suddenly among the boughs the wind
Breathed a last sigh, and with it swept away
Those living stars, and all was silence round,
The silentness of an expecting dream.
Then at the close of that cathedral nave
A white and radiant vapor softly grew,
Dazzling and formless, which with silvery gleam
Lay like a tremulous pavement round the stems.
Far off, resplendent as an Altar-piece
Illumined from behind, a Figure rose
Of beauty such as art hath ne'er conceived,
The Virgin Mother with her Infant Son.
Upon her countenance, rounded like the moon,
An orb of open features, was impressed
The secret of her fortunes, which transcend
The loftiest surmise of created mind.
The sweet maternal instinct there divulged
In deep impassioned silence, to whose depth
Each lineament the while serenely lends
An utterance almost vocal, then appeared
Calmed and arrested by profounder thoughts,
And by the intense tranquillity of bliss
Brooding in chaste enjoyment on itself.
And yet not wholly wanting was the look
Of pensive self-collection that dispersed
On the celestial seeming of her face
A beautiful timidity, through which
Her mortal birth o'er every feature reigned
Triumphant, and harmoniously o'erruled
90
Upon her face transferred, where extasy,
Divinely glowing, by remembrances
Of grief was deeply moved, yet not displaced.
But in that Infant Saviour there appeared
Nought of celestial origin involved
In His fair features, where the loveliness
Of mortal childhood singly was diffused:—
Yet such a Child as might in Sanzio's soul
Have dawned upon his seeking thoughts, and filled
His beautiful conception to the brim.
Nought of celestial origin involved
In His fair features, where the loveliness
Of mortal childhood singly was diffused:—
Yet such a Child as might in Sanzio's soul
Have dawned upon his seeking thoughts, and filled
His beautiful conception to the brim.
Smitten with love, where there was naught to check
The bold adventure, no monition given
Which might retard its unchastised approach,
Sir Lancelot gazed in rapture on the Child.
Worship of love he proffered, without fear,
And felt no fear, all seemed so beautiful.
Straightway the vision stirred; the Mother hid
The Child, too long, too tenderly beheld,
And a dim trouble up the surface passed
Of that bright vaporous pavement spread around,
Like the black curls of wind that crisp the lake.
Anon the sheeted silver smoothed itself,
And winding music played about the wood
With ringing clearness, like the concord made
By stars that slide with music in their grooves
All day and night across the vocal spheres.
The bold adventure, no monition given
Which might retard its unchastised approach,
Sir Lancelot gazed in rapture on the Child.
Worship of love he proffered, without fear,
And felt no fear, all seemed so beautiful.
Straightway the vision stirred; the Mother hid
The Child, too long, too tenderly beheld,
And a dim trouble up the surface passed
Of that bright vaporous pavement spread around,
Like the black curls of wind that crisp the lake.
Anon the sheeted silver smoothed itself,
And winding music played about the wood
With ringing clearness, like the concord made
By stars that slide with music in their grooves
All day and night across the vocal spheres.
From out the vapour with a tuneful noise
Arose the Maiden Mother, with her head
Star-crowned, her feet upon the subject globe,
The writhing serpent bruised beneath her heel,
Herself by grace assumed unto a throne
And neighborhood unspeakable. Let verse
Seek not for craft of language to declare
The seeming of the Woman glorified,
The mortal who was Mother of our God,—
Him only, singly worshipped evermore,
Singly, with equal glory to the Three!
And underneath the globe was laid a tomb,
O'er which the twelve Apostles bending gazed,
Interpreting the marvel of the flowers,
The white and speckless lilies, that broke forth
And momently grew, budded, flowered, and swung
Their waxen censers in the vacant tomb.
Guiding the eyes of nations and of times
Aloft the Virgin pointed to her Son,
In palpable Divinity enthroned,
Yet lacking not one token of that birth
His creature was elected to confer.
Arose the Maiden Mother, with her head
Star-crowned, her feet upon the subject globe,
The writhing serpent bruised beneath her heel,
Herself by grace assumed unto a throne
And neighborhood unspeakable. Let verse
Seek not for craft of language to declare
91
The mortal who was Mother of our God,—
Him only, singly worshipped evermore,
Singly, with equal glory to the Three!
And underneath the globe was laid a tomb,
O'er which the twelve Apostles bending gazed,
Interpreting the marvel of the flowers,
The white and speckless lilies, that broke forth
And momently grew, budded, flowered, and swung
Their waxen censers in the vacant tomb.
Guiding the eyes of nations and of times
Aloft the Virgin pointed to her Son,
In palpable Divinity enthroned,
Yet lacking not one token of that birth
His creature was elected to confer.
Enough: such visions were familiar then,
And to the spirit of that age akin,
Mingling the uncertain with the true, while yet
They ministered to real works of grace.
Enough that Lancelot from that day forth,
In the true knightly fashion of the times,
Was sworn a serf of Mary, with a vow
Made inwardly, and worshipping full oft
With worship falling short and frustrated
By youthful inconsistencies, below
That high devotion which belongs of right
Unto the majesty of Mary, queen
Of heaven, and empress of the Sacred Heart,—
Yet worship such as sanctified his life,
And quietly detained him near to God,
Such worship as infallibly secures
Its purity to youth, or to old age
The placid harbour of repentant love.
And to the spirit of that age akin,
Mingling the uncertain with the true, while yet
They ministered to real works of grace.
Enough that Lancelot from that day forth,
In the true knightly fashion of the times,
Was sworn a serf of Mary, with a vow
Made inwardly, and worshipping full oft
With worship falling short and frustrated
By youthful inconsistencies, below
That high devotion which belongs of right
Unto the majesty of Mary, queen
Of heaven, and empress of the Sacred Heart,—
Yet worship such as sanctified his life,
And quietly detained him near to God,
Such worship as infallibly secures
Its purity to youth, or to old age
The placid harbour of repentant love.
Now in his mountain harbor, in the calm
Of sheltered solitude, he loved to muse
Upon the Mother-Maid, nor sought to pierce
With bold enquiry that mysterious ring,
Where she is sphered apart from all the lives
Of us her fellow mortals, a reserve
Of honorable thought to her assigned,
Special, as is the blessing which our lips
In careful reverence couple with her name.
Enough that round her starry throne are stored
The precious treasures of redeeming grace,
Which grow beneath her hands, and multiply
In miracles of mercy; and enough
That easier access, so her Son hath willed,
Is nowhere granted to the sighs and tears
Of those for whom He bled upon the Cross;
Enough that Mary hath become a part
Of the dear law of grace,—an aqueduct,
Strong and far-reaching, on all shores and times
With prudent prodigality to turn
The torrents of divine compassion, once
Poured forth on Calvary,—an ordinance
Pervading all the ways of God,—a truth
Laid deep in the foundations of the faith,
And part of its integrity,—a power,
Which whoso slights, shall rue it evermore.
O Mystery to Christian souls endeared!
O chaste Virginity so sweetly crowning
Maternal Love! what wonder that thou art
A joy to contemplate from age to age,
Such blending of all purities as draws
Unto itself the countless hearts of men,
And once drew God to take a Human Heart?
92
Upon the Mother-Maid, nor sought to pierce
With bold enquiry that mysterious ring,
Where she is sphered apart from all the lives
Of us her fellow mortals, a reserve
Of honorable thought to her assigned,
Special, as is the blessing which our lips
In careful reverence couple with her name.
Enough that round her starry throne are stored
The precious treasures of redeeming grace,
Which grow beneath her hands, and multiply
In miracles of mercy; and enough
That easier access, so her Son hath willed,
Is nowhere granted to the sighs and tears
Of those for whom He bled upon the Cross;
Enough that Mary hath become a part
Of the dear law of grace,—an aqueduct,
Strong and far-reaching, on all shores and times
With prudent prodigality to turn
The torrents of divine compassion, once
Poured forth on Calvary,—an ordinance
Pervading all the ways of God,—a truth
Laid deep in the foundations of the faith,
And part of its integrity,—a power,
Which whoso slights, shall rue it evermore.
O Mystery to Christian souls endeared!
O chaste Virginity so sweetly crowning
Maternal Love! what wonder that thou art
A joy to contemplate from age to age,
Such blending of all purities as draws
Unto itself the countless hearts of men,
And once drew God to take a Human Heart?
And yet, not resting here, Sir Lancelot's love
Went sounding onward. With a feeble flight,—
A feebleness that daily gathered strength
As he was more and more assoiled from sin—
He tried the further depths of grace divine,
Further and further, by the upward light
Of that pure Mystery conducted thither,
Till so from love of Mary to the love
Of Jesus he adventured, while he learned
Through her transcending office to explore
The depth of that descent which Love essayed,
When Christ from everlasting glory came,
And was incarnate, by His creature helped,—
O rare compassion! O most dear design!—
With Veil of Flesh and Body Virginal.
Went sounding onward. With a feeble flight,—
93
As he was more and more assoiled from sin—
He tried the further depths of grace divine,
Further and further, by the upward light
Of that pure Mystery conducted thither,
Till so from love of Mary to the love
Of Jesus he adventured, while he learned
Through her transcending office to explore
The depth of that descent which Love essayed,
When Christ from everlasting glory came,
And was incarnate, by His creature helped,—
O rare compassion! O most dear design!—
With Veil of Flesh and Body Virginal.
Yet, self-disdaining sinner as he was,
An abject Penitent, he rather sought
To find the glory of the Saviour's Throne
By the sweet moonlight of that lesser truth:
Unwisely, for Celestial Love is found
Man's neighbor, not in circuits to be reached,
But like an Angel cleaving to his side.
He that loves Jesus must already love
The Mother whom He loved Himself with love
Surpassing words; and he who truly loves
The Mother hath already shrined the Son
In his heart's best affections, far above
All other loves, beyond all love of her.
Nay, our dear Lord will sometimes seem to hold
Our love of Him as homage less direct
Than that which at His Mother's feet we lay,
Either to teach us to what marvellous height
He hath assumed His creature, or to show
To what abyss His condescensions reach.
Thus in his love of Mary had the Knight
Gained what he purposed only to approach,
And needed not to seek the Son beyond
Who with His Mother was already found,
And to that Mother led the soul at first.
Yet such to his abasement had appeared
The lowlier wisdom, while through homage paid
Unto the Virgin Mother of the Lord
The Lord Himself was sought, and through that way
Love seemed to climb an easier ascent,
And even faith more sweetly venturous
Appeared, and Heaven far more within his reach.
An abject Penitent, he rather sought
To find the glory of the Saviour's Throne
By the sweet moonlight of that lesser truth:
Unwisely, for Celestial Love is found
Man's neighbor, not in circuits to be reached,
But like an Angel cleaving to his side.
He that loves Jesus must already love
The Mother whom He loved Himself with love
Surpassing words; and he who truly loves
The Mother hath already shrined the Son
In his heart's best affections, far above
All other loves, beyond all love of her.
Nay, our dear Lord will sometimes seem to hold
Our love of Him as homage less direct
Than that which at His Mother's feet we lay,
Either to teach us to what marvellous height
He hath assumed His creature, or to show
To what abyss His condescensions reach.
Thus in his love of Mary had the Knight
Gained what he purposed only to approach,
94
Who with His Mother was already found,
And to that Mother led the soul at first.
Yet such to his abasement had appeared
The lowlier wisdom, while through homage paid
Unto the Virgin Mother of the Lord
The Lord Himself was sought, and through that way
Love seemed to climb an easier ascent,
And even faith more sweetly venturous
Appeared, and Heaven far more within his reach.
While in past years he sojourned in the east
Something of a mysterious chance, heaven-sent,
His life had there encountered, whence he drew
This faith,—that he who would exorcise sin
Must strive by meditative power to place
Before his eyes in darkness and in light
The gracious aspect of his Suffering Lord,
An Apparition facing him all hours,
As palpably to tenant the blank air,
As if he saw a moving Crucifix
Meeting his eye with shadowy regards,
Such as on Peter rested in the hall,
Which, like a sunrise, look all sin away.
Something of a mysterious chance, heaven-sent,
His life had there encountered, whence he drew
This faith,—that he who would exorcise sin
Must strive by meditative power to place
Before his eyes in darkness and in light
The gracious aspect of his Suffering Lord,
An Apparition facing him all hours,
As palpably to tenant the blank air,
As if he saw a moving Crucifix
Meeting his eye with shadowy regards,
Such as on Peter rested in the hall,
Which, like a sunrise, look all sin away.
In lowliness to this most solemn task
He now betook himself, unaided there
By bodily similitudes which lift
The earth-attracted heart above the earth,
And by a monitory impulse raise
Our difficult devotions, and sustain
Them raised, until they freely breathe the air
Of faith's sublimest region: such supports
In loving wisdom doth the Church accord,
To him in that lone valley not vouchsafed.
But simple nature with maternal skill,
A willing fellow-worker, might supply,
Whether of knotted growths that had forestalled
Device of art, or pliant matter shaped
With facile toil, an image of the Cross,
Which he had reared upon his lowly cell,
And on two points which earliest sunrise struck
And latest sunset left, and in those bowers
And oratories of the open air
Which he frequented most, and there he taught
The indocile ivy to restrain its wreaths,
And with an unambitious clasp to sign
The Cross upon the bosom of the wood.
He now betook himself, unaided there
By bodily similitudes which lift
The earth-attracted heart above the earth,
And by a monitory impulse raise
Our difficult devotions, and sustain
Them raised, until they freely breathe the air
Of faith's sublimest region: such supports
In loving wisdom doth the Church accord,
To him in that lone valley not vouchsafed.
But simple nature with maternal skill,
95
Whether of knotted growths that had forestalled
Device of art, or pliant matter shaped
With facile toil, an image of the Cross,
Which he had reared upon his lowly cell,
And on two points which earliest sunrise struck
And latest sunset left, and in those bowers
And oratories of the open air
Which he frequented most, and there he taught
The indocile ivy to restrain its wreaths,
And with an unambitious clasp to sign
The Cross upon the bosom of the wood.
With such appliance armed, he bent his mind
In long continuous musing on that Form
And grave benignant Aspect, which he strove
By power of inward habit to project
Into the unpeopled light and vacant gloom,
Outwardly realized, which, like the Ark
Of wandering Israel, moving or at rest,
In permanent companionship might bless,
And as It blessed, absolve and canonize
The long outgoings of his months and years.
In long continuous musing on that Form
And grave benignant Aspect, which he strove
By power of inward habit to project
Into the unpeopled light and vacant gloom,
Outwardly realized, which, like the Ark
Of wandering Israel, moving or at rest,
In permanent companionship might bless,
And as It blessed, absolve and canonize
The long outgoings of his months and years.
The help of speech, and that access of power
Which meditation gains from utterance,
And vocal plaints from time to time indulged,
He was denied, a penance self-imposed,
And meekly borne. So with intense desire
And inward recollection now he strove
By recitation of the blessèd Creeds
To imprint a lively Image of our Lord
Upon his spirit. With unflagging strain
And unrelaxing grasp of thought he held
His mind long poised upon each wondrous Clause,
Each gracious lineament of saving truth,
Until the countenance of the Written Faith
Broke forth in silent voices, and each word
Sang like a trumpet in his inmost soul:
And with the ringing sound his fleshy heart
Glowed like a furnace, till the Type of Him
Whose love it echoed was annealed thereon.
Which meditation gains from utterance,
And vocal plaints from time to time indulged,
He was denied, a penance self-imposed,
And meekly borne. So with intense desire
And inward recollection now he strove
By recitation of the blessèd Creeds
To imprint a lively Image of our Lord
Upon his spirit. With unflagging strain
And unrelaxing grasp of thought he held
His mind long poised upon each wondrous Clause,
Each gracious lineament of saving truth,
96
Broke forth in silent voices, and each word
Sang like a trumpet in his inmost soul:
And with the ringing sound his fleshy heart
Glowed like a furnace, till the Type of Him
Whose love it echoed was annealed thereon.
Even so, when on the Tuscan Apennine
Descending autumn down the beechwood slope
Her russet mantle trailed, St. Francis knelt.
His spirit hung in stedfast rapture far
Above the atmosphere of vocal prayer,
While 'twixt the beamy Seraph's folded wings
He saw the Sacred Effigy depending;
And from the gracious Wounds, five Wells of health
To stanch the sensual issues of our sins,
There came five rays of light which was not born
Of sun or moon, but from that Orb detached
That sheds on Sion streets eternal day;—
The city undisclosed, whose outlines faint
Tremble with indistinct pulsation now,
Like sunset quivering on the clouds of night,
Upon the bosom of the earthly Church.
Those starry pencils on his fleshly frame,
By cleansing fast and vigil now sublimed,
Haply by love, too, partially transformed,
As, when the Judgment-Fire is passed, all flesh
Shall be,—played for a little while, and left,
By their sharp radiance copied to the life,
The Saviour's awful Wounds. Such solemn power
Imagination on the bodily limbs
Usurps, concurring with intensest love
And long unbroken singleness of thought,
And with miraculous effort outwardly
Reveals the habitual aspect of the heart,
As grace and nature in the work combine.
Thus, by a hundred witnessed, Francis came
Down from Alvernia, like a vessel sealed,
And stigmatized in fashion as his Lord.
Descending autumn down the beechwood slope
Her russet mantle trailed, St. Francis knelt.
His spirit hung in stedfast rapture far
Above the atmosphere of vocal prayer,
While 'twixt the beamy Seraph's folded wings
He saw the Sacred Effigy depending;
And from the gracious Wounds, five Wells of health
To stanch the sensual issues of our sins,
There came five rays of light which was not born
Of sun or moon, but from that Orb detached
That sheds on Sion streets eternal day;—
The city undisclosed, whose outlines faint
Tremble with indistinct pulsation now,
Like sunset quivering on the clouds of night,
Upon the bosom of the earthly Church.
Those starry pencils on his fleshly frame,
By cleansing fast and vigil now sublimed,
Haply by love, too, partially transformed,
As, when the Judgment-Fire is passed, all flesh
Shall be,—played for a little while, and left,
By their sharp radiance copied to the life,
The Saviour's awful Wounds. Such solemn power
Imagination on the bodily limbs
Usurps, concurring with intensest love
And long unbroken singleness of thought,
And with miraculous effort outwardly
Reveals the habitual aspect of the heart,
97
Thus, by a hundred witnessed, Francis came
Down from Alvernia, like a vessel sealed,
And stigmatized in fashion as his Lord.
Another means Sir Lancelot took to win
The vision that he sought, a means well known
To every generation of the Saints—
By meditating livelong days and nights
On our Lord's Passion. Step by step he went
Along that Road of Sorrows, till he seemed
Even in the boldness of his pity moved
To glide into our Saviour's place, and toil
Beneath the salutary Burden, laid
Upon the Guiltless for the guilty's sake.
O dearest Fount of sadness and of weeping!
How few there are in all this busy world
That turn aside to drink thy sacred stream!
Was ever grief like that? Was ever woe
Divine as His, so blessedly endeared
To every human heart whose mortal pains
Additional fulfilments of our curse
Have been, darkening the earth? Oh ancient Grief!
The countless ages cry a blessing on thee!
From out the depths of poverty where dwell
The Unnumbered, the Neglected, comes the song
Of sorrow that hath broken forth in hymns
Exultingly: and from the high-born, kings,
And peers, and palatines, and famous minds,
And goldy warriors, sounds in stately march
The music of their world-renouncing vows.
The vision that he sought, a means well known
To every generation of the Saints—
By meditating livelong days and nights
On our Lord's Passion. Step by step he went
Along that Road of Sorrows, till he seemed
Even in the boldness of his pity moved
To glide into our Saviour's place, and toil
Beneath the salutary Burden, laid
Upon the Guiltless for the guilty's sake.
O dearest Fount of sadness and of weeping!
How few there are in all this busy world
That turn aside to drink thy sacred stream!
Was ever grief like that? Was ever woe
Divine as His, so blessedly endeared
To every human heart whose mortal pains
Additional fulfilments of our curse
Have been, darkening the earth? Oh ancient Grief!
The countless ages cry a blessing on thee!
From out the depths of poverty where dwell
The Unnumbered, the Neglected, comes the song
Of sorrow that hath broken forth in hymns
Exultingly: and from the high-born, kings,
And peers, and palatines, and famous minds,
And goldy warriors, sounds in stately march
The music of their world-renouncing vows.
O Grief of griefs! with what celestial love
Inflamed, we ponder on that Holy Week,
Within whose seven diurnal rounds compressed
Lies the whole sum and substance of the world,
The measure of all time, the ultimate crown
Of human destinies and Love Divine,
All, all in one completion centring deep,
The Star that through the Passion gleams in sign
Beneficent, the ever-blessed Cross!
Inflamed, we ponder on that Holy Week,
Within whose seven diurnal rounds compressed
Lies the whole sum and substance of the world,
98
Of human destinies and Love Divine,
All, all in one completion centring deep,
The Star that through the Passion gleams in sign
Beneficent, the ever-blessed Cross!
Thus with determinate effort he retrieved
What memory in her faithful keeping held
In depths a mother's words alone can reach,
The order of those Sacred Woes, and form
Of their procession, by the Spirit shown
To man fourfold from four celestial towers
Of contemplation, movingly pourtrayed,
And with pathetic variations touched,
Touched and illumed, by blest Evangelists.
What memory in her faithful keeping held
In depths a mother's words alone can reach,
The order of those Sacred Woes, and form
Of their procession, by the Spirit shown
To man fourfold from four celestial towers
Of contemplation, movingly pourtrayed,
And with pathetic variations touched,
Touched and illumed, by blest Evangelists.
Yet, craving every help, the more to prop
The unsteady balance of an earthly mind,
Upon the western slope of that lone hill
Whereon he dwelt, above the valley raised
And from the heights detached, he for himself
A Kreuzberg made. A difficult ascent
He chose, a steep and natural stair time-worn
Amid the jutting stones, and to the wind
And rains with such a bleak exposure laid
As had repelled the meagre skin of moss
Which strove to creep upon the scalps of rock.
And now upon that rugged slope did he
Choose fourteen eminences, whence to frame
As many Stations of remembrance, havens
Where thought, and with thought prayer, might disembark
In its too rapid voyage, and on the capes
Might worship of that monumental shore,
Which he was coasting with exceeding fear.
And, at the Stations, to the rocks he tied
A simple Cross, erect save at the spots
Which should recall the sinking of our Lord
Beneath His Burden; there he laid the Sign
Prostrate upon the stone, and with a cord
Of supple ivy bound it in its place.
And at the summit in a fissure grew
A blasted holly, from whose trunk he cut
The withered boughs, but two he left, alive
And branching from the stem on either side,
So that it stood upon that slab of rock,
Facing the sunset, as a living Cross.
The unsteady balance of an earthly mind,
Upon the western slope of that lone hill
Whereon he dwelt, above the valley raised
And from the heights detached, he for himself
A Kreuzberg made. A difficult ascent
He chose, a steep and natural stair time-worn
Amid the jutting stones, and to the wind
And rains with such a bleak exposure laid
As had repelled the meagre skin of moss
Which strove to creep upon the scalps of rock.
And now upon that rugged slope did he
Choose fourteen eminences, whence to frame
As many Stations of remembrance, havens
Where thought, and with thought prayer, might disembark
In its too rapid voyage, and on the capes
Might worship of that monumental shore,
Which he was coasting with exceeding fear.
And, at the Stations, to the rocks he tied
99
Which should recall the sinking of our Lord
Beneath His Burden; there he laid the Sign
Prostrate upon the stone, and with a cord
Of supple ivy bound it in its place.
And at the summit in a fissure grew
A blasted holly, from whose trunk he cut
The withered boughs, but two he left, alive
And branching from the stem on either side,
So that it stood upon that slab of rock,
Facing the sunset, as a living Cross.
There at each Station daily on his knees
He wept; for to the Knight the gift of tears
In like abundant measure had been given
With him, Assisi's Saint, whose streaming eyes
Gushed out with water for the holy Law
Of Jesus slighted among men, as though,
Invested with such function, they were called
To be vicarious fountains of remorse
For all mankind, and, ever on the verge
Of blindness trembling, only wept the more,
And still to him the sunshine was ensured
By marvel, so men deemed, till near his death,
If death such calm translation might be named.
He wept; for to the Knight the gift of tears
In like abundant measure had been given
With him, Assisi's Saint, whose streaming eyes
Gushed out with water for the holy Law
Of Jesus slighted among men, as though,
Invested with such function, they were called
To be vicarious fountains of remorse
For all mankind, and, ever on the verge
Of blindness trembling, only wept the more,
And still to him the sunshine was ensured
By marvel, so men deemed, till near his death,
If death such calm translation might be named.
And not displeased was he full oft to find
Upon each tightly-fastened Cross the wool
Left by the intrusive sheep, whose presence there
To his thought desecrated not the place,
But left appropriate tribute on the Sign
Of the true Lamb, as men should lay their sins
Upon the Cross, as though from servitude
Might those inferior creatures be redeemed,
Whose snowy fleeces on the mountain side
Gleam, like the righteousness that shall displace
Our guilt, and whose most patient wrongs and pains
Elected are to bear about in type,
In language of a plaintive import preached
Oft to dull ears, the Passion of our Lord.
Upon each tightly-fastened Cross the wool
Left by the intrusive sheep, whose presence there
To his thought desecrated not the place,
But left appropriate tribute on the Sign
Of the true Lamb, as men should lay their sins
Upon the Cross, as though from servitude
Might those inferior creatures be redeemed,
Whose snowy fleeces on the mountain side
Gleam, like the righteousness that shall displace
100
Elected are to bear about in type,
In language of a plaintive import preached
Oft to dull ears, the Passion of our Lord.
There, on that steep by touching symbols made
A sanctuary, did he now confront
That history of woe, which is not woe
To sinful man, but everlasting weal.
Thus, on its melancholy sweetness fed,
And by the pressure of the holy Creeds
Upon his inward spirit, and by hope,
And faith unfeignèd, and assiduous love,
The personal image of our Saviour grew
Before his eyes, a Presence on the air
Depicted, and with self-sufficing light
Upon the field of darkness silently
Irradiate; such a Type as haunted once
The bashful intellect of Christian Art
In mountainous Umbria, when before the face
Of re-awakening paganism she fled,
Taking amid the barren Apennines
Those Moulds and Aspects of a tender grace
Divinely pure,—the Mother and the Son,
The Desert-Preacher, and the lineaments
Of the great Twelve, with Paul and Barnabas
Born out of time,—from ancient days received,
And in the western family preserved
Of deep traditions, while the east ran wild
In forms debased. In exile over these
With reverential homage Christian Art
Brooded with many a tear, and mid those rocks
Died of neglect, or haply seemed to die,
Surviving still, a sleeper in the caves
Where truths withdrawn await another hour.
A sanctuary, did he now confront
That history of woe, which is not woe
To sinful man, but everlasting weal.
Thus, on its melancholy sweetness fed,
And by the pressure of the holy Creeds
Upon his inward spirit, and by hope,
And faith unfeignèd, and assiduous love,
The personal image of our Saviour grew
Before his eyes, a Presence on the air
Depicted, and with self-sufficing light
Upon the field of darkness silently
Irradiate; such a Type as haunted once
The bashful intellect of Christian Art
In mountainous Umbria, when before the face
Of re-awakening paganism she fled,
Taking amid the barren Apennines
Those Moulds and Aspects of a tender grace
Divinely pure,—the Mother and the Son,
The Desert-Preacher, and the lineaments
Of the great Twelve, with Paul and Barnabas
Born out of time,—from ancient days received,
And in the western family preserved
Of deep traditions, while the east ran wild
In forms debased. In exile over these
With reverential homage Christian Art
Brooded with many a tear, and mid those rocks
Died of neglect, or haply seemed to die,
Surviving still, a sleeper in the caves
Where truths withdrawn await another hour.
101
Such Image now Sir Lancelot beheld
Fronting him day and night; such blessed Type
Was his, a benediction evermore.
And at all seasons, whether day-break came,
And on the foreheads of the eastern hills
Ran over with an unction of sweet light,
As from a cup filled slowly, or the peaks,
In evening's downy purple richly garbed,
Seemed from their daylight nearness to retire,
This Pictured Faith was present to his eye.
But, chiefly and most calmly, was it prized
In the cold quiet of autumnal days,
When by the leaf-choked streams he took his road,
Or the dim-curtained afternoons of mist,
Of sobbing mist and intermitting rain,
Whene'er the silent-weeping woods all day
With melancholy dripping on crisp leaves
Foster a pleasant sadness, and there come
Sounds, as of children wakening from a dream,
Of raindrops soaking through the withered herbs,
Or creatures searching for their holes, obscured
By some accession of decay, or shower
Of yellow leaves in silent circle dropped,
Each underneath the bough on which it grew.
Fronting him day and night; such blessed Type
Was his, a benediction evermore.
And at all seasons, whether day-break came,
And on the foreheads of the eastern hills
Ran over with an unction of sweet light,
As from a cup filled slowly, or the peaks,
In evening's downy purple richly garbed,
Seemed from their daylight nearness to retire,
This Pictured Faith was present to his eye.
But, chiefly and most calmly, was it prized
In the cold quiet of autumnal days,
When by the leaf-choked streams he took his road,
Or the dim-curtained afternoons of mist,
Of sobbing mist and intermitting rain,
Whene'er the silent-weeping woods all day
With melancholy dripping on crisp leaves
Foster a pleasant sadness, and there come
Sounds, as of children wakening from a dream,
Of raindrops soaking through the withered herbs,
Or creatures searching for their holes, obscured
By some accession of decay, or shower
Of yellow leaves in silent circle dropped,
Each underneath the bough on which it grew.
Environed therefore with such gracious aids,
And with such spiritual furtherance now
Abetted, was it strange that he should feel
Deep joy, almost sufficiency, therein?
Yet such his lowliness of temper, such
The habitual self-abasement of his mind,
The very rising of a happy thought
Disquieted his covetous research
Of sorrow, and his love of gloomy fears,
Sought as a duty, mercifully foiled.
He was a suitor of sad thoughts, but still
Nature was glad around him, and the peace
Of God was in his heart, and every day
Brought some new pleasure to the birth, some joy
That stood more clear of such incumbrances
As interposed before; and many a time
Was he a prisoner taken unawares
In his own gladness, by a pleasant guile
Entrapped: even as a melancholy man,
Who with a lovely child may walk abroad,
With his own griefs too much in sympathy,
Or by the torture of unsettled thought
Abstracted from the soothing images
Of nature close at hand; yet when he sees
How every face of every passer by
Relaxes into pleasure, shares at length
The general sunshine, and pursues his way
Caressing his sweet satellite, and full
Of gladness such as is the food of tears.
And with such spiritual furtherance now
Abetted, was it strange that he should feel
Deep joy, almost sufficiency, therein?
Yet such his lowliness of temper, such
The habitual self-abasement of his mind,
The very rising of a happy thought
Disquieted his covetous research
Of sorrow, and his love of gloomy fears,
Sought as a duty, mercifully foiled.
102
Nature was glad around him, and the peace
Of God was in his heart, and every day
Brought some new pleasure to the birth, some joy
That stood more clear of such incumbrances
As interposed before; and many a time
Was he a prisoner taken unawares
In his own gladness, by a pleasant guile
Entrapped: even as a melancholy man,
Who with a lovely child may walk abroad,
With his own griefs too much in sympathy,
Or by the torture of unsettled thought
Abstracted from the soothing images
Of nature close at hand; yet when he sees
How every face of every passer by
Relaxes into pleasure, shares at length
The general sunshine, and pursues his way
Caressing his sweet satellite, and full
Of gladness such as is the food of tears.
Such change now grew upon him as he fain
Would disallow, although by what designs
To counteract it he perceived not yet.
So much he saw, that he must first dislodge
That sense of home and localized repose
Which even to that poor wilderness attached
And scene of lone self-chastisement, whose forms
Were by embodied memories now endeared,
And by the friendly aspect of the fields
Worn, when the heart and earth appear to come
To mutual understanding, through long years
Associate, and vicissitudes of lot,—
While things around, outgrowing their cold charm
Of novelty, their vacant freedom seem
To abjure, till they are peopled, like the isles
Or happy fields where fable placed the shades,
With all our past existence bright and dark.
Then, with strange joy that life had yet to show
A field of self-denial unexplored,
With firm resolve he left the Ash-tree Cell,
As the eighth summer of his sojourn there
Gave early autumn leave to reign by night
O'er that green realm which she still ruled by day.
Would disallow, although by what designs
To counteract it he perceived not yet.
So much he saw, that he must first dislodge
That sense of home and localized repose
Which even to that poor wilderness attached
And scene of lone self-chastisement, whose forms
Were by embodied memories now endeared,
And by the friendly aspect of the fields
Worn, when the heart and earth appear to come
To mutual understanding, through long years
Associate, and vicissitudes of lot,—
While things around, outgrowing their cold charm
Of novelty, their vacant freedom seem
To abjure, till they are peopled, like the isles
103
With all our past existence bright and dark.
Then, with strange joy that life had yet to show
A field of self-denial unexplored,
With firm resolve he left the Ash-tree Cell,
As the eighth summer of his sojourn there
Gave early autumn leave to reign by night
O'er that green realm which she still ruled by day.
On Lammas Day at morn Sir Lancelot went,
Turning his back upon the quiet port,
Whereat the damage of his soul had been
Repaired with such a noiseless skill. He climbed
The moor with hurried steps as in distrust
Of his own purpose, for he felt how much
He left behind in leaving that calm vale.
Onward he mounted with an obstinate gaze
Fixed on the blank blue sky, as though his heart
Had sworn an oath unto itself that he
Would send no backward lingering looks. But still,
The more he strove to cast his thoughts in front,
The more they lagged behind. The very forms
Of the old places faced him as he walked.
The sister ash-trees and the low-browed cell,
The well-known aspect of its open door,
Which with a greeting of mute cognizance
Met his returning eye, the church-like breath
Of frankincense that ruled within from boughs
Of withered pine, the lily on her bay
Dimpling in nature's solitary eye
The lucid waters with faint flashing light,
The Crosses on the Kreuzberg with the wool
Left by the sheepflocks fluttering in the breeze,
Like the last leaves of autumn,—all came round
And stood before him, palpable and clear
As he well knew his backward-looking sight
Could yet encounter them. But with a speed
Such knowledge only quickened, up the hill
He strained, and some few footsteps interposed
A ridge between the valley and himself;
And then Sir Lancelot turned to look behind.
The vacant waste of cold fresh waves that meet
The morning gaze of him who yesternight
Slept, by the crescent lights of some huge port
Embraced, could bring a not more sad surprise
Than that new landscape which he now beheld.
His eyes, that teemed with such sweet images
And household forms in vivid groups, now fell
Upon a sunny slope of verdant moor,
With rocky slabs of azure grey, whereon
The sun and shower with emulous intent
Bright maps of yellow lichen had designed,
And sailing low with flight that almost brushed
The grass, a buzzard-cock with creaking wings
And melancholy whistle swept along.
Turning his back upon the quiet port,
Whereat the damage of his soul had been
Repaired with such a noiseless skill. He climbed
The moor with hurried steps as in distrust
Of his own purpose, for he felt how much
He left behind in leaving that calm vale.
Onward he mounted with an obstinate gaze
Fixed on the blank blue sky, as though his heart
Had sworn an oath unto itself that he
Would send no backward lingering looks. But still,
The more he strove to cast his thoughts in front,
The more they lagged behind. The very forms
Of the old places faced him as he walked.
The sister ash-trees and the low-browed cell,
The well-known aspect of its open door,
Which with a greeting of mute cognizance
Met his returning eye, the church-like breath
Of frankincense that ruled within from boughs
Of withered pine, the lily on her bay
Dimpling in nature's solitary eye
The lucid waters with faint flashing light,
The Crosses on the Kreuzberg with the wool
Left by the sheepflocks fluttering in the breeze,
Like the last leaves of autumn,—all came round
And stood before him, palpable and clear
104
Could yet encounter them. But with a speed
Such knowledge only quickened, up the hill
He strained, and some few footsteps interposed
A ridge between the valley and himself;
And then Sir Lancelot turned to look behind.
The vacant waste of cold fresh waves that meet
The morning gaze of him who yesternight
Slept, by the crescent lights of some huge port
Embraced, could bring a not more sad surprise
Than that new landscape which he now beheld.
His eyes, that teemed with such sweet images
And household forms in vivid groups, now fell
Upon a sunny slope of verdant moor,
With rocky slabs of azure grey, whereon
The sun and shower with emulous intent
Bright maps of yellow lichen had designed,
And sailing low with flight that almost brushed
The grass, a buzzard-cock with creaking wings
And melancholy whistle swept along.
And now two loitering hours were gone, consumed
In frequent halts, before the Knight came down
The western spur of Kirkstone, on whose slope
A little hamlet stood, securely wedged
Between two hills; a place it was that seemed
Half houses and half foliage, interspersed
With such sweet skill that one might almost doubt
Whether the human habitations preyed
Upon the original forest, or the wood
Encroached upon the village, such an air
Of peace there was and natural solitude.
In frequent halts, before the Knight came down
The western spur of Kirkstone, on whose slope
A little hamlet stood, securely wedged
Between two hills; a place it was that seemed
Half houses and half foliage, interspersed
With such sweet skill that one might almost doubt
Whether the human habitations preyed
Upon the original forest, or the wood
Encroached upon the village, such an air
Of peace there was and natural solitude.
And calmly rose in curling volumes blue
The reeling spires of smoke, and to a stream
Of upper wind ascending, they were curved,
And, melting in the sunbeams, faded off,
Dissolved in odors vague of burning peat.
And to the Knight, a northern born, no scent
More delicately grateful e'er could wrap
His sense in livelier memories of the past.
For eight long penal years no fires of man
Had cheered him, with their tale so softly told
Of social bliss, and quiet histories
Of wedded hearts and faithful loves obscure.
And now with thankful spirit he inhaled
The unexpected fragrance, like a man
Whose memory some most pleasant thought eludes
Long time, and meets him at a sudden turn
In far-off lands, a pilgrim like himself.
The reeling spires of smoke, and to a stream
Of upper wind ascending, they were curved,
105
Dissolved in odors vague of burning peat.
And to the Knight, a northern born, no scent
More delicately grateful e'er could wrap
His sense in livelier memories of the past.
For eight long penal years no fires of man
Had cheered him, with their tale so softly told
Of social bliss, and quiet histories
Of wedded hearts and faithful loves obscure.
And now with thankful spirit he inhaled
The unexpected fragrance, like a man
Whose memory some most pleasant thought eludes
Long time, and meets him at a sudden turn
In far-off lands, a pilgrim like himself.
That morning smoke! what depths did it unlock
Of childhood, by the pressure of stern years
Forcibly closed, or by the chill of age
Congealed, and wintry selfishness! What days
Of boyish plans to fish in distant tarns,
To rifle some chance brood of eaglets found
By shepherd boy, or steal the wild swan's eggs,
When through the half-awakened villages
The early peat-smoke with the cold bright air
Mingled its pleasant incense as he rode,
All in his mother's life-time,—memory clung
To later things with less tenacious hold;—
All rose upon his mind and gently shook,
As morning shakes the dew-drops in the wood,
The depth of feeling, with a power as calm
As spring when at the bottom of the streams
She bids the long-haired plants anoint their locks
With lustrous verdure for her bridal morn.
Of childhood, by the pressure of stern years
Forcibly closed, or by the chill of age
Congealed, and wintry selfishness! What days
Of boyish plans to fish in distant tarns,
To rifle some chance brood of eaglets found
By shepherd boy, or steal the wild swan's eggs,
When through the half-awakened villages
The early peat-smoke with the cold bright air
Mingled its pleasant incense as he rode,
All in his mother's life-time,—memory clung
To later things with less tenacious hold;—
All rose upon his mind and gently shook,
As morning shakes the dew-drops in the wood,
The depth of feeling, with a power as calm
As spring when at the bottom of the streams
She bids the long-haired plants anoint their locks
With lustrous verdure for her bridal morn.
Ah! not untruthful is the wondrous light
Wherein the soul abides, with noblest thoughts
Begirt, that wait their hour of utterance,
When Memory with Imagination sits,
Twin monarchs, throned upon the quiet mind:
Even as the rising moon and setting sun
Reign over no disparted realm, but each
Fills the whole circuit of the heavens with light
Peculiarly its own, and yet so merged
In mutual government, the very sun
In moonlight sets, the moon in sunshine climbs.
And not untruthful too, for all its sweetness,
Is that illumination which converts
The soul into a silent fairy-land
By sleight of memory, when the happy Past
Is with the Present gracefully involved.
So to one wandering in the tarnished woods
Beneath the bright autumnal moon, the boughs,
Half-stripped, appear in May's imperfect leaves
Of lucid green but just attired; the orb
Restoring, while it hides their present hue,
That old transparent coloring of the spring.
Such double office when the memory fills,
Confusing times and places, who shall say
Whether it be the Present that illumes
The Past, or that same Past which is the moon
Of the fair present? Such perplexity
Of joy, half extricated from the shade
Of sadness, now beset Sir Lancelot's mind,
And solving this sweet doubt he took his way.
Wherein the soul abides, with noblest thoughts
106
When Memory with Imagination sits,
Twin monarchs, throned upon the quiet mind:
Even as the rising moon and setting sun
Reign over no disparted realm, but each
Fills the whole circuit of the heavens with light
Peculiarly its own, and yet so merged
In mutual government, the very sun
In moonlight sets, the moon in sunshine climbs.
And not untruthful too, for all its sweetness,
Is that illumination which converts
The soul into a silent fairy-land
By sleight of memory, when the happy Past
Is with the Present gracefully involved.
So to one wandering in the tarnished woods
Beneath the bright autumnal moon, the boughs,
Half-stripped, appear in May's imperfect leaves
Of lucid green but just attired; the orb
Restoring, while it hides their present hue,
That old transparent coloring of the spring.
Such double office when the memory fills,
Confusing times and places, who shall say
Whether it be the Present that illumes
The Past, or that same Past which is the moon
Of the fair present? Such perplexity
Of joy, half extricated from the shade
Of sadness, now beset Sir Lancelot's mind,
And solving this sweet doubt he took his way.
Among the closed and silent cottages
He went, much wondering at the novel sight,
Till on the air there rose a joyous chant,
A treble of thin childish voices, stealing
Upon the quiet place and through the wood,
Like the faint murmur of a brook dispersed,
Mastered by rustling leaves and sighing airs.
Thus, by the music guided, he arrived
Where o'er a wall a drooping wych-elm hung
And roofed full half the road, which suddenly
Dipped down a steep descent, and there he found
A beautiful procession winding by,
The Guild of August in its old array.
The countrymen in holiday attire,
And dames in Sunday kirtles, and a troop,
Chief actors they, of little boys and girls
Bearing religious emblems, marched along
To celebrate their Loaf-Mass at the shrine
Of sweet St. Catherine by the silver mere,
With Host of ripest and selected ears
Of that year's corn, its happy first-fruits, made.
A fragrant basket of the new-won hay,
Amid those hills in early autumn won,
They bore in front, and wands of braided rush
With wild flowers filleted, and Crosses three
In simple thought of pastoral art devised.
One with a flower-like wreath of marvellous plumes
And radiant feathers trimmed, from wondrous lands
Beyond the sea by one far-travelled brought
For his betrothed, by her more fitly given
For such good end than used for personal pride.
Another was there all of virgin white,
Circled with one live twig of leafy vine
That neither too much hid nor too much showed
The gleaming outline of the symbol dear;
No fruitage grew depending from the stalk,
For He who hung upon that Tree of Life
Himself was fruit, and other needed none.
The third more like a natural growth of earth
Appeared, with cup-moss overgrown, and crust
Of beautiful green things akin to moss.
Then followed many a bright and gaudy show
And quaint device significant, and most
Fluttered with dangling chains and knotted rush,
In honor, doubtless, of St. Peter's Chains
Of which the Church memorial makes that day.
He went, much wondering at the novel sight,
Till on the air there rose a joyous chant,
A treble of thin childish voices, stealing
Upon the quiet place and through the wood,
Like the faint murmur of a brook dispersed,
107
Thus, by the music guided, he arrived
Where o'er a wall a drooping wych-elm hung
And roofed full half the road, which suddenly
Dipped down a steep descent, and there he found
A beautiful procession winding by,
The Guild of August in its old array.
The countrymen in holiday attire,
And dames in Sunday kirtles, and a troop,
Chief actors they, of little boys and girls
Bearing religious emblems, marched along
To celebrate their Loaf-Mass at the shrine
Of sweet St. Catherine by the silver mere,
With Host of ripest and selected ears
Of that year's corn, its happy first-fruits, made.
A fragrant basket of the new-won hay,
Amid those hills in early autumn won,
They bore in front, and wands of braided rush
With wild flowers filleted, and Crosses three
In simple thought of pastoral art devised.
One with a flower-like wreath of marvellous plumes
And radiant feathers trimmed, from wondrous lands
Beyond the sea by one far-travelled brought
For his betrothed, by her more fitly given
For such good end than used for personal pride.
Another was there all of virgin white,
Circled with one live twig of leafy vine
That neither too much hid nor too much showed
The gleaming outline of the symbol dear;
No fruitage grew depending from the stalk,
For He who hung upon that Tree of Life
Himself was fruit, and other needed none.
The third more like a natural growth of earth
Appeared, with cup-moss overgrown, and crust
108
Then followed many a bright and gaudy show
And quaint device significant, and most
Fluttered with dangling chains and knotted rush,
In honor, doubtless, of St. Peter's Chains
Of which the Church memorial makes that day.
Onward they marched; the weak-voiced choir still sang
The Benedicite for rural wealth,
For that year's vigorous growth of sappy wood,
For new-won hay and promise of the corn.
Sweetly it rose, though feebly, for 'twas ruled
That they alone who had not toiled should sing.
In truth a goodly sight it was, and type
To make men wisely sad, to see the feet
Of children tottering with a lofty Cross
Of weight beyond their own, and seeking aid,
Like souls that stay themselves upon the Church,
Their hands within their mothers' locked, to bear
Their honorable burdens to the lake.
The Benedicite for rural wealth,
For that year's vigorous growth of sappy wood,
For new-won hay and promise of the corn.
Sweetly it rose, though feebly, for 'twas ruled
That they alone who had not toiled should sing.
In truth a goodly sight it was, and type
To make men wisely sad, to see the feet
Of children tottering with a lofty Cross
Of weight beyond their own, and seeking aid,
Like souls that stay themselves upon the Church,
Their hands within their mothers' locked, to bear
Their honorable burdens to the lake.
Still on the selfsame spur of Kirkstone lives
The ancestral custom, from its day displaced
Insensibly through lapse of time, or act
Of those unweeting of its ancient form.
Still is that flowery chain of olden time
By pressure of long centuries unsnapped;
And I would pray, that have good right to pray,
A foreigner adopted to the hearths
Of that fair town and freedom of the hills,
That, from the troubled centre of the land
By nature cast apart, her sons may long
With simpler wants more readily obey
The instincts of a simpler faith, and live
In the calm light of cheerful usages,
And rites and truths of happy ancient days!
The ancestral custom, from its day displaced
Insensibly through lapse of time, or act
Of those unweeting of its ancient form.
Still is that flowery chain of olden time
By pressure of long centuries unsnapped;
And I would pray, that have good right to pray,
A foreigner adopted to the hearths
Of that fair town and freedom of the hills,
That, from the troubled centre of the land
By nature cast apart, her sons may long
With simpler wants more readily obey
The instincts of a simpler faith, and live
In the calm light of cheerful usages,
109
O'ercome by thoughts, where pain acutely strove
With joy, Sir Lancelot stayed behind to weep.
Onward the pageant swept; no turning eye
Witnessed his presence at the village pomp;
For all, both hearts and eyes, were forward bent
To gray St. Catherine's on Winander's shore.
And, when the querulous voices of the band
Now died far off, he left the road and passed
A purling brook which fenced an ancient park,
That so he might not cross the peopled path
Of that sweet vision.
With joy, Sir Lancelot stayed behind to weep.
Onward the pageant swept; no turning eye
Witnessed his presence at the village pomp;
For all, both hearts and eyes, were forward bent
To gray St. Catherine's on Winander's shore.
And, when the querulous voices of the band
Now died far off, he left the road and passed
A purling brook which fenced an ancient park,
That so he might not cross the peopled path
Of that sweet vision.
But another sight,
Less fair, he now was destined to confront.
Down a steep lawn there ran a green arcade
Trelliced with boughs of Glastonbury thorn,
Beneath whose open shade three flights of steps,
Cut in the ground and clothed with native sward,
Led from a postern of a Saxon hall
Down to the park; and at the wicket gate,
Which closed that covered way, a falconer stood:
Four birds in scarlet cowls upon his staff
Sedately perched, erect and motionless;
And two dark palfreys by a groom were held,
In trappings gay for lady's use attired,
Who to that pastime, from the Saracens
At first imported, now were sallying forth.
Less fair, he now was destined to confront.
Down a steep lawn there ran a green arcade
Trelliced with boughs of Glastonbury thorn,
Beneath whose open shade three flights of steps,
Cut in the ground and clothed with native sward,
Led from a postern of a Saxon hall
Down to the park; and at the wicket gate,
Which closed that covered way, a falconer stood:
Four birds in scarlet cowls upon his staff
Sedately perched, erect and motionless;
And two dark palfreys by a groom were held,
In trappings gay for lady's use attired,
Who to that pastime, from the Saracens
At first imported, now were sallying forth.
Behind the drooping umbrage of a tree
Sir Lancelot stood, while down the dim arcade,
Like beams of light, two youthful maidens came.
In energy of mirth, and overflow
Of words in some grave presence long pent up,
Their voices, like a peal of silver bells,
In falls of laughter rang, most musical,
As if the very pulse of joy herself
Its rapid beatings clothed in bodily sound.
Blythely they talked, and by the Holy Mass
They ratified this idle speech or that,
Or of our Virgin Lady's sainted name
Made frequent use and frivolous; yet they chanced
On such light words and with such feminine air
Of innocent pretence, that he who blamed,
Except to save his conscience as a priest,
In hall and bower was deemed a base-born churl:
And who so hardy as resist the world
When it would canonize a graceful sin?
Sir Lancelot stood, while down the dim arcade,
Like beams of light, two youthful maidens came.
In energy of mirth, and overflow
Of words in some grave presence long pent up,
Their voices, like a peal of silver bells,
In falls of laughter rang, most musical,
110
Its rapid beatings clothed in bodily sound.
Blythely they talked, and by the Holy Mass
They ratified this idle speech or that,
Or of our Virgin Lady's sainted name
Made frequent use and frivolous; yet they chanced
On such light words and with such feminine air
Of innocent pretence, that he who blamed,
Except to save his conscience as a priest,
In hall and bower was deemed a base-born churl:
And who so hardy as resist the world
When it would canonize a graceful sin?
Onward they hastened to a little mere
That northward lay, and wafted down the vale
By fits there came those silvery peals of mirth.
Forth from his covert too Sir Lancelot went;
Each laughing sound that struck his ear but seemed
To spur him forward: not the morning smoke,
Nor simple psalmody of childish choir,
Wielded the powers of memory with a strength
And speed more irresistible than now
The voices of those children of the world.
No images of blameless times, past years
Whose shades are not less soothing than their light,
No distant landscapes of the long-left shore
Of childhood, did these present sounds invoke;
But sinful joys, deluding dreams of power,
The vanity of enterprise in arms,
Months of soft self-indulgence, and wild hours
Lost in oblivious revel with his peers,
Or while he plied the bootless trade of love,—
And all that comfortless eclipse of Heaven
Which youth calls knowledge of the world, and buys,
As men bought power of Satan, with a bond
Written in blood, a woful covenant.
How merrily those laughters seemed to freight
The quiet of the vale! How long the breeze
Played with the sound! yet to Sir Lancelot's ear
It was a joyless, nay, an awful sound.
It fell with such interpretation there
As baffled all its lavish melody.
None but a child would deem the passing-bell
Blythe music, yet it woos to happier thoughts
Than all the songs and viols of the world.
That northward lay, and wafted down the vale
By fits there came those silvery peals of mirth.
Forth from his covert too Sir Lancelot went;
Each laughing sound that struck his ear but seemed
To spur him forward: not the morning smoke,
Nor simple psalmody of childish choir,
Wielded the powers of memory with a strength
And speed more irresistible than now
The voices of those children of the world.
No images of blameless times, past years
Whose shades are not less soothing than their light,
No distant landscapes of the long-left shore
Of childhood, did these present sounds invoke;
But sinful joys, deluding dreams of power,
The vanity of enterprise in arms,
Months of soft self-indulgence, and wild hours
Lost in oblivious revel with his peers,
Or while he plied the bootless trade of love,—
And all that comfortless eclipse of Heaven
Which youth calls knowledge of the world, and buys,
As men bought power of Satan, with a bond
111
How merrily those laughters seemed to freight
The quiet of the vale! How long the breeze
Played with the sound! yet to Sir Lancelot's ear
It was a joyless, nay, an awful sound.
It fell with such interpretation there
As baffled all its lavish melody.
None but a child would deem the passing-bell
Blythe music, yet it woos to happier thoughts
Than all the songs and viols of the world.
Westward Sir Lancelot bent his steps, nor knew
By what blind choice he was impelled that way.
Such the strange instinct working in the hearts
Of agèd men, who with habitual mood
Creep o'er the meadows to the setting sun,
Their feeble backs bent down and aspect prone,
With tardy effort from the different stiles
Freeing their limbs; yet ever by that lure,
That golden light, which gives them back their years,
And from the ground flows upward to their eyes,
Drawn on, forget to measure with their strength
The distance of that unillumined way
They must perforce return. So westward went
The Knight, and by the Brathay's glittering shore
Rested at noon, where, opposite, there rose
A single hill, the transcript of his own
In Troutbeck Vale, a miniature, whose base
Half by a mountain road was clipped, and half
By the dark flood and mural parapet
Of tall osmunda with its halberds green.
And o'er the shady slope there lightly swung
A latticed network of depending ash,
Whose scanty elegance of foliage served
Rather for aid to guide the exploring eye
To tempting coverts and moss couches spread
In sun-proof dingles, mid the whispering boughs,
And in the audience of the murmuring stream.
By what blind choice he was impelled that way.
Such the strange instinct working in the hearts
Of agèd men, who with habitual mood
Creep o'er the meadows to the setting sun,
Their feeble backs bent down and aspect prone,
With tardy effort from the different stiles
Freeing their limbs; yet ever by that lure,
That golden light, which gives them back their years,
And from the ground flows upward to their eyes,
Drawn on, forget to measure with their strength
The distance of that unillumined way
They must perforce return. So westward went
The Knight, and by the Brathay's glittering shore
Rested at noon, where, opposite, there rose
A single hill, the transcript of his own
In Troutbeck Vale, a miniature, whose base
Half by a mountain road was clipped, and half
By the dark flood and mural parapet
Of tall osmunda with its halberds green.
And o'er the shady slope there lightly swung
A latticed network of depending ash,
Whose scanty elegance of foliage served
Rather for aid to guide the exploring eye
112
In sun-proof dingles, mid the whispering boughs,
And in the audience of the murmuring stream.
What though, retired in our calm temperate noons,
No admonition to the ear is given
By snow-white campanero in the woods,
From leafy turrets tolling, like the bell
Of distant convent, all along the shore
Of turbid Demerara, summoning
The quiet listening creatures, and poor slaves,
To prayer in that intolerable hour
When toil were death;—yet by the lisping leaves,
The gurgling of cool waters, and the sounds
That one by one are ceasing in the fields,
Noon here invites the soul to thought and prayer.
And thus Sir Lancelot profitably mused,
With penitent acknowledgments relieved
By tears of gratitude and speechless praise,
Upon the double vision of that morn,
Those Aspects and those Voices which revealed
The twofold Powers, the friend and foe of man,
The Church and World, each travelling on its way.
No admonition to the ear is given
By snow-white campanero in the woods,
From leafy turrets tolling, like the bell
Of distant convent, all along the shore
Of turbid Demerara, summoning
The quiet listening creatures, and poor slaves,
To prayer in that intolerable hour
When toil were death;—yet by the lisping leaves,
The gurgling of cool waters, and the sounds
That one by one are ceasing in the fields,
Noon here invites the soul to thought and prayer.
And thus Sir Lancelot profitably mused,
With penitent acknowledgments relieved
By tears of gratitude and speechless praise,
Upon the double vision of that morn,
Those Aspects and those Voices which revealed
The twofold Powers, the friend and foe of man,
The Church and World, each travelling on its way.
Then up the stream he went through rushy fields,
Or paths with trampled elderberries stained,
And knolls of grateful wood, until a ring
Of ancient oaks the secret entrance marked
Of a deep transverse valley: thence he passed,
Enchanted, through the sylvan paradise
Of Tilberth waite, and Yewdale's rocky shades
And grimly purpled steeps, and to the right
Ascending, wound along the stony flank
Of a tall mountain from whose terraced side
His eye could rest upon a sunny lake,
Spread riverlike in silvery maze behind.
Or paths with trampled elderberries stained,
And knolls of grateful wood, until a ring
Of ancient oaks the secret entrance marked
Of a deep transverse valley: thence he passed,
Enchanted, through the sylvan paradise
Of Tilberth waite, and Yewdale's rocky shades
And grimly purpled steeps, and to the right
Ascending, wound along the stony flank
Of a tall mountain from whose terraced side
His eye could rest upon a sunny lake,
Spread riverlike in silvery maze behind.
| Sir Lancelot | |