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SAINT BENEDICT. A.D. 678.
War, and the great in war, let others sing;
Havoc, and spoil, and tears, and triumphing;
The morning march that flashes to the sun,—
The feast of vultures, when the day is done;
And the strange tales of many slain for one.
I sing a man—amidst his sufferings here;
Who watch'd and serv'd in humbleness and fear;
Gentle to others, to himself severe.
—Roger's Ode to Superstition.
Havoc, and spoil, and tears, and triumphing;
The morning march that flashes to the sun,—
The feast of vultures, when the day is done;
And the strange tales of many slain for one.
I sing a man—amidst his sufferings here;
Who watch'd and serv'd in humbleness and fear;
Gentle to others, to himself severe.
—Roger's Ode to Superstition.
Of one who liv'd and died in solitude;
In dens and caverns, far from human thought,
I sing—a hermit pure, and kind, and good;
Serene, contemplative:—he car'd for nought
But the fair principles from nature brought—
Nature, and God, and his own thinking soul:
The silent dells were places which he sought
To lift his spirit o'er the earth's controul,
Religion for his guide, and heaven his final goal.
In dens and caverns, far from human thought,
I sing—a hermit pure, and kind, and good;
Serene, contemplative:—he car'd for nought
But the fair principles from nature brought—
Nature, and God, and his own thinking soul:
The silent dells were places which he sought
To lift his spirit o'er the earth's controul,
Religion for his guide, and heaven his final goal.
The racing seasons to his cavern came;
The moon and stars gaz'd down in mournfnl love;
Morning and evening show'd their towers of flame;
The pebbled brooks sung to him in their move,
And the birds cheer'd his spirit from the grove.
With her most wond'rous impulses, the night
Roll'd her black chariots o'er the clouds above;
The storms spake to him with their voice of might;
The meteors glar'd askance, and shook their tresses bright.
The moon and stars gaz'd down in mournfnl love;
Morning and evening show'd their towers of flame;
The pebbled brooks sung to him in their move,
And the birds cheer'd his spirit from the grove.
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Roll'd her black chariots o'er the clouds above;
The storms spake to him with their voice of might;
The meteors glar'd askance, and shook their tresses bright.
He saw the Northern streamers—when they rise
Like heavenly fires on the embodied wind,
Or greetings from the earth unto the skies—
The first of flowers and fruits he knew to find;
All glorious visions did his spirit bind.
To brood o'er man and human history;
In nooks most barren, precious wealth to find;
To think, to feel, to look around and sigh,
Were tasks he ever sought, and easy could descry.
Like heavenly fires on the embodied wind,
Or greetings from the earth unto the skies—
The first of flowers and fruits he knew to find;
All glorious visions did his spirit bind.
To brood o'er man and human history;
In nooks most barren, precious wealth to find;
To think, to feel, to look around and sigh,
Were tasks he ever sought, and easy could descry.
Far from the hollow murmur and rude cry
Of busy life, the holy hermit stay'd;
The gaudy glare of cities past him by—
The strife, noise, clamour: he, all unarray'd,
Save in poor weeds, beheld the pageant fade:
Disease, death, agony, he never saw;
With war's loud storms and tempests undismay'd:
Great nations sunk away in time's huge maw:
Vast fires, fierce earthquakes rag'd, yet nothing did he know.
Of busy life, the holy hermit stay'd;
The gaudy glare of cities past him by—
The strife, noise, clamour: he, all unarray'd,
Save in poor weeds, beheld the pageant fade:
Disease, death, agony, he never saw;
With war's loud storms and tempests undismay'd:
Great nations sunk away in time's huge maw:
Vast fires, fierce earthquakes rag'd, yet nothing did he know.
Nor ought of love, that in the cottage lone,
Or in high palaces, doth work its way!
Nor ought of pleasure, that with dance and song,
And merriment, doth wile the livelong day.
There was a cloud that o'er his spirit lay,
And shut, without, the wayward freaks of time;
And far beyond bright stars held holiday;
And white-rob'd spirits fill'd the shadows dim;
And visions pure and high, and memories sublime.
Or in high palaces, doth work its way!
Nor ought of pleasure, that with dance and song,
And merriment, doth wile the livelong day.
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And shut, without, the wayward freaks of time;
And far beyond bright stars held holiday;
And white-rob'd spirits fill'd the shadows dim;
And visions pure and high, and memories sublime.
On the cold clay, the lonely hermit slept;
The food of birds and savage beasts was his:
None heard his prayers—none saw him when he wept—
None knew his sorrows—none partook his bliss;
Heaven's blessed dreams his only happiness.
The love of friends and kinsmen came not near;
No tender offspring sought a father's kiss;
Expos'd to every shape of hate and fear,
That dwells in gloomy caves, and wildernesses drear.
The food of birds and savage beasts was his:
None heard his prayers—none saw him when he wept—
None knew his sorrows—none partook his bliss;
Heaven's blessed dreams his only happiness.
The love of friends and kinsmen came not near;
No tender offspring sought a father's kiss;
Expos'd to every shape of hate and fear,
That dwells in gloomy caves, and wildernesses drear.
Instead of poets' dreams, and poets' sighs,—
Th' exultant raptures that with silence dwell:
Instead of warrior seeking enterprise,
To rescue spotless maid from wizard fell;
Instead of shepherd's charge or flowered dell;
Instead of hunter's sport with wolf and boar;
Good Benedict, far other joys befel:
To worship God in caverns rude and hoar,
To shrive to perfect truth his soul with sins run o'er.
Th' exultant raptures that with silence dwell:
Instead of warrior seeking enterprise,
To rescue spotless maid from wizard fell;
Instead of shepherd's charge or flowered dell;
Instead of hunter's sport with wolf and boar;
Good Benedict, far other joys befel:
To worship God in caverns rude and hoar,
To shrive to perfect truth his soul with sins run o'er.
In every moaning wind that murmur'd low,—
In every running stream, in every sound
Of trembling leaf, in every motion's flow,
He heard the voice of God: his praise he found
In all things circled within Nature's bound:—
God, he beheld in clouds that glided by;
God, in the sun, moon, stars, and azure round;
God, when the mountains rear'd their frosts on high;
God, in each sound and sight, that met his ear and eye!
In every running stream, in every sound
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He heard the voice of God: his praise he found
In all things circled within Nature's bound:—
God, he beheld in clouds that glided by;
God, in the sun, moon, stars, and azure round;
God, when the mountains rear'd their frosts on high;
God, in each sound and sight, that met his ear and eye!
God was his treasure and his ample store;
His constant good—his life, his thought, his aim;
The temples of his soul were crowded o'er
With pictur'd glories—gems of purest flame;
And to his table crowned angels came;
Alone—yet tended by immortal love;
Poor—heaven's most precious riches his became,
Sad—purest raptures cloth'd him from above:
Strength, wealth, love, friendship, hope, wherever he did move.
His constant good—his life, his thought, his aim;
The temples of his soul were crowded o'er
With pictur'd glories—gems of purest flame;
And to his table crowned angels came;
Alone—yet tended by immortal love;
Poor—heaven's most precious riches his became,
Sad—purest raptures cloth'd him from above:
Strength, wealth, love, friendship, hope, wherever he did move.
Thus, pure and blameless did he pass each day;
Not in rude clamour did his worship soar;
Not with mad riot did he homage pay,
With noisy outcry, and blaspheming roar:
The heart's deep strong devotion needs no more
Than simple supplication, and meek prayer;
And Benedict had learnt true wisdom's love
From God's own voice, that sounded in the air,
Or spake in conscience true, when passion hover'd near.
Not in rude clamour did his worship soar;
Not with mad riot did he homage pay,
With noisy outcry, and blaspheming roar:
The heart's deep strong devotion needs no more
Than simple supplication, and meek prayer;
And Benedict had learnt true wisdom's love
From God's own voice, that sounded in the air,
Or spake in conscience true, when passion hover'd near.
O, calumny—thou mad and bitter thing,
That gnaws at noblest hearts, within the bowers
Of virgin pride, or, where, on steady wing,
The eagle heart in truth's bright azure towers—
O, calumny, thee not the purest flowers
Can 'scape unscath'd: and thus this eremite,
On whose clear spirit goodness fell in showers—
This lonely dweller could not 'scape the blight
That cruel men do feign to dim the stars of night.
That gnaws at noblest hearts, within the bowers
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The eagle heart in truth's bright azure towers—
O, calumny, thee not the purest flowers
Can 'scape unscath'd: and thus this eremite,
On whose clear spirit goodness fell in showers—
This lonely dweller could not 'scape the blight
That cruel men do feign to dim the stars of night.
None ever liv'd untouch'd by calumny:
It shook the throne of God when Satan fell;
It stain'd the angels' garments—wet each eye—
And, seeking paradise, with Eve did dwell:
And cannot earth of this foul spirit tell?—
It came to sceptred Cæsar: Sappho felt
On her white-breast the stain; and Milton well
Knew its vile breath, that ever round him dwelt;
And holiest men have drunk the poison as they knelt.
It shook the throne of God when Satan fell;
It stain'd the angels' garments—wet each eye—
And, seeking paradise, with Eve did dwell:
And cannot earth of this foul spirit tell?—
It came to sceptred Cæsar: Sappho felt
On her white-breast the stain; and Milton well
Knew its vile breath, that ever round him dwelt;
And holiest men have drunk the poison as they knelt.
To rude Cassino, 'mong the savage men
It drove this holy saint: the Volsci knew
The apostle's mantle: miracles even then
Had not all died away: his God was true.
And now, o'er crowded ages, not a few
High deeds record his fame;—he liveth still:
In old cathedrals we his memories view,
And living voices own his ancient will:
The reign of peace and truth can never have its fill.
It drove this holy saint: the Volsci knew
The apostle's mantle: miracles even then
Had not all died away: his God was true.
And now, o'er crowded ages, not a few
High deeds record his fame;—he liveth still:
In old cathedrals we his memories view,
And living voices own his ancient will:
The reign of peace and truth can never have its fill.
What, though the earthquake beats the trembling ground,
And the great sea shrinks back with awe and fear,
And the deep hollow caverns send a sound,
Because of wond'rous tidings that are near;
Rumours of wars and death that fill the air;
Rumours of awful changes; still, the dead—
The mighty dead—in fame, live bright and clear—
The great, the good, of ages past, are wed,
Even with eternal truth, and ne'er will bow their head.
And the great sea shrinks back with awe and fear,
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Because of wond'rous tidings that are near;
Rumours of wars and death that fill the air;
Rumours of awful changes; still, the dead—
The mighty dead—in fame, live bright and clear—
The great, the good, of ages past, are wed,
Even with eternal truth, and ne'er will bow their head.
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