University of Virginia Library

MASTER AND SCHOLAR.

I.

SCENE—A Franciscan House. St Ebbe's, Oxford. A winter sunrise, 1267.
Roger Bacon sitting at a desk, dressed as a Franciscan friar, barefooted.
[Writes, and then pauses.
[A voice is heard without chanting a Latin hymn.
[Voice is heard singing again.
Enter Joannes, a young Franciscan.
Joan.
How should I be sad,
My father, when our God has given me all
The fulness of His favours? I, who, poor,
Bereaved of father, mother, home, have found
Safe shelter here; and for the city's crowd,
This saintly calm; for ignorance untaught,
Uncared for, all the wondrous thoughts that rise
From opening knowledge; for the ribald scoff
And fierce rough jests, these songs of seraphim,
These prayers by day and night, I must be glad.
But thou, my father, on thy weary brow
Are traced long hours of vigil. Thou hast watched
The seven-starred Wain move onward till it paled,
And wrapt in thought as in a garment, lost
Thy power to count, or eve, or night, or morn.
Yield now to nature, let me tend on thee,
Prepare thy couch, bring furs to cover thee,
And sing thee to thy slumber. I must pay
The debt I owe thee.

Bacon.
Thanks, thou gentle boy;
Thy kindness saddens, as but now thy song
Gave me a moment's cheer. What debt is due
For all the little thou hast learnt of me,
The much that thou hast taught me? Is not life
The brighter for all interchange of thought?
Is it not written, “Freely ye received,
As freely give.” 'Twere better rest than sleep,
To talk with thee of Wisdom, and the paths,
Star-paved, that lead to her high firmament,
And give thee counsel how to know the true,
And shun the counterfeit. Three years have passed
Since first I taught thee. Does thy purpose cleave
As steadfastly as ever? Take account;
Look back upon the ground that thou hast gained,
The world that lies before thee, and decide
If thou hast courage for thy high emprise.
Should thy heart fail thee, or thy spirit faint,
Turn back to lowlier ways. Hast thou the sign
God gives His chosen warriors? As of old,
Their joys and sorrows are not as the rest:
Their fleece is wet when all around is dry;
The dew of heaven is theirs, to cheer and bless,
When others sink upon the arid sand;
Their fleece is dry when all around is wet,
They have their sorrows which the world knows not,
Their conflicts in the midnight loneliness
That others taste not.

Joan.
Yes, my father, yes.
My heart misgives me not. Thy hand has helped
My feeble steps through maze and tangled brake,
And I look back on what, when first I came,
Seemed a far country. All the threefold way
Of Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric, I leave
As childish things behind me, and I press
On to the great Quadrivium, where I know
Thy counsels will not fail me. How I fare
In music thou hast heard. Each day from thee
I learn the mystic powers and subtle laws
Of Numbers; and my hand is skilled to trace
The circles and triangles, whence we learn
To measure earth and heaven. When nightfall comes
I watch the stars, and note where Venus shines,
Companion to the moon, or seen at morn,
The herald of the sun. The Pleiads fair,
Arcturus and Orion, these I know,
And on the silver sphere thy hands have framed
Can trace the line which marks the equal day,
And all the cycles upon cycles turned
That cause the changing seasons; and the eclipse,
That frightens others as the scourge of God,
Disturbs me not, who know that earth and sky
One great Workmaster own; nor when at night
The bearded star o'er half the heaven extends
Its trail of misty light, have I looked on
With more than placid wonder. Yet there lies
One world I have not entered, and all this
Is but the outer court and vestibule
Of God's great temple. I would scan and know
The mysteries of my life—the spirit's life—
Whence come my thoughts, and what the primal source
Of all our knowledge, how to judge aright
Amid the strange confusions of our time,
Whence come the truths which subtle skill of art
Builds up into a system. Soon I trust
My progress onward will attain the prize,
And I shall enter on the topmost clime
Of all our knowledge, woo Philosophy,
As bridegroom woos his bride, and passing on
From lower teachers, list to him who speaks
Through all the ages, chief, supreme, the lord
Of many worlds, as he of Macedon,
The pupil of that seer of high renown,
Was lord of many nations. Yes, I crave
To know what he, the Master of the Wise,
Has left as our inheritance; and then,
When human knowledge rounds itself full orbed,
The outward and the inward universe
Mapped out and planned, to search the things of God,
The treasures of His truth which, hid in Christ,
His Church goes on unfolding, age by age,
The counsels of the past eternities,
The vision of the future, all the power,
The love, the wisdom of the Eternal Three:
This were the crown of all.

Bacon.
Ah, boy, thou dream'st
As I have dreamt before thee. Now the way
Seems clear and open, and the mountain-height
Far off is radiant with the rosy dawn.
But ere thou reach it, many a weary day
Thou must toil on, and find the pathway rough,
The woods bewildering, seas of ice and snow
Between thee and the summit. And the path
Thou choosest leads astray. It is not thus
That thou can'st climb to wisdom. Not by books,
The dead traditions of a glorious name,
Such as men give thee, can'st thou converse hold
With that Stageirite. I have scanned his words
In his own speech, clear, definite, and bright
As instruments of steel, and I have owned
The might of that far-reaching intellect,
And said within me, “What this man has done,
I too may do, and from his vantage-ground
Go on and conquer.” But these friars, who teach,
With vile monks' Latin marring all his thoughts,
Who feed on worthless husks and grainless chaff,
As asses browse on thistles, let them be;
Learn not of them, but go to Nature's self,
And question at her shrine oracular,
And wait her answer. Dogmas of the schools,
Thy master's teaching, yea, thy fondest dreams,
That seem to solve the problems of the world,
Test by her mighty voice, the fact that lives
When man's devices perish. I have toiled
Through painful years, and here alone I find
The way that leads to Truth—and now to-day
I set the seal on this my life's long task:
This volume holds the sum of all I deem
Most worthy of preserving, golden dust
From sands and rock collected. This shall be
The witness to the future age, of one
Whom few or none acknowledged in his life;
And one day thou shalt read it, and shalt find
True guidance. Yet I know not, as I speak,
How I may baffle those that watch and spy,
My brothers, in whose dreams the demon comes
And marks me his. In very zeal of faith,
Should these poor parchments come into their hands,
They will condemn, destroy them, and the fire
Feed on them grimly, while they wish, poor souls,
It had the writer also. I must take
My measures to defeat them. One has said,
Christ's Vicar, seated on St Peter's throne,
That he will welcome what I write. To him
I seek to send it; but the way is long,
And friends are few. There needs the strength of limb,
The fearless heart, the mind to measure right
The value of the trust, the golden seed
Of a more golden harvest, ere I find
One fitted for a pilgrimage like that.

Joan.
Hast thou not found him, O my father? Lo,
Though shrinking from mine own infirmity,
Fearless of all besides, myself I give
To do thy bidding. Did I say but now
I sought to pay my debt, and shall I lose
The occasion that has come, I do not say
To pay it, (that were idle,) but to give
My witness that I owe it? Suffer me
To bear the priceless casket; with my life
I answer for its safety. Next my heart,
As on the heart of Aaron lay of old
Urim and Thummim, it shall lie, the Light
And Truth for future ages. None shall tear
The treasure from my keeping. Never child
More safe in mother's arms than that shall be,
Firm in my grasp till death. I will not trust
Another's hands; myself will make my way
To where Christ's Vicar, on St Peter's throne,
Sits girt with subject princes. And my voice
Shall tell him that I bring, not gold or gems,
Rubies or orient emeralds, but one pearl,
Spotless and noble, and that pearl of price,
Thy wisdom, O my father, which thy soul,
Deep diving in the boundless seas of thought,
Hath gained, of many, goodliest.

Bacon.
Hast thou heard,
Dear dreamer, of the words that bid us heed
How we cast pearls before the beast unclean?
Those purpled prelates, pampered parasites,
Buffoons, or pedants—thou wilt seem to them
A madman, and thy journey o'er the seas
But a fool's errand. No. The way is long,
And thou art young, and I am loth the world
Should deal with thee too roughly, loth to think
The change and chance of travel may wear off
Thy blameless freshness. Wait awhile. 'Tis best
To carry on the purpose of thy life,
And give thy years to wisdom.

Joan.
Nay, not so;
God watches o'er the wanderer. On his head,
Or sleeping on the sultry wastes of sand,
With lions prowling round him, or on height
Of snow-crowned mountains, when the icy wind
Bears the wolf's howling to the frighted sense,
God's angels come and go, and they will keep
My soul from evil. Trust me, let me go,
For so, my father, (I must tell thee all,)
Thou addest to my debt. My soul has longed
These many months to see that greater world
That lies beyond the limits of our cells.
Fain would I seek the sepulchres of saints,
And kneel where martyrs conquered, fain would hear
The voices of the wise, and kneeling low
Before the teacher whom the general voice
Has owned Seraphic, (so the love of God
Burns in his soul with clear, enduring flame,)
Learn from him all divinest mysteries.
And Rome itself, the wonder of the world,
The mistress of the Empire and the Church,
City of kings and saints—Rome still has been
My waking dream. Deny me not, I pray,
Lest I begin to think thou dost not trust
My courage, or my steadfastness of will.
Hast thou not known me? Have I not obeyed
Thy least command? gone forth at thy behest
At midnight, when the storm was on the hills,
And spectre forms seemed flitting through the air,
To cull thee simples? swum across the flood,
To bear thy letters to thy secret friends,
Thy brothers in the mystery of thine art?
And should I fail thee now? It must not be.
Thou wilt consent, my father.

Bacon.
Dare I choose
Between the two resolves? To say, Go forth,
May risk his life, may mar his innocence;
And should I hear that evil on the way
Befell him, I shall go down to the grave,
As did the patriarch for his best-loved son,
In dust and ashes; yet to say, Hold back,
Renounce the bold and perilous emprise,
May quench the fire which God himself has lit,
And crush it into dulness. And the book,
What then shall come of that? It gathers mould
On some high shelf, unread; or friars, who hate
With all a bigot's hatred, tear its leaves;
Or ruder hands seize on it, as the work
Of an old wizard, whose accursed spells
Have given their children agues, or have sent
The murrain through their flocks. No, let me see
In that clear eye God's augury of good,
In that strong voice God's oracle of might;
And as one said of old, the prophet boy,
To Israel's pontiff, “Here am I, O Lord,
For Thou didst call me,” and at last the priest
Knew that it was of God, so I may know
That here is one true servant of the Truth,
Elect before the world to do His will,
And minister to Wisdom. Were it not
A selfish fear to keep him here with me,
That I may share his gentle ministries,
And find one soul like-minded with mine own?
I, too, am offering up a sacrifice
On that high altar. Go, then, boy, go forth;
God's blessing on thee, and His angels guard
Thy soul from evil. Once they kept their watch
O'er him who journeyed to Ecbatana,
And that bright vision of the archangel's love
Will not be far from thee. I will not fail
To watch and pray; and far as human words
Can help thee on thy way, thou shalt not miss
For highest words of honour. I will write
To that high Pontiff at whose feet I lay
The long-stored treasures of the mine of thought,
And tell him of thy noble zeal, thy love
For knowledge, worthiest mistress, and for me,
Thy most unworthy master. Fare thee well;
If thou must go, 'twere best thou tarry not;
Our brothers here are lynx-eyed.

Joan.
On my knees
I thank thee, father, bless thee; and I start
This very hour, across the frozen snow,
And track the river's windings. As I go,
My heart will sing for joy, more blithe and glad
Than when thou heard'st me in the morning's prime.

[Exit, and is heard singing:
And again,

II.

SCENE—The same cell in the Franciscan house at Oxford. Eve of St Barnabas, A.D. 1294.
Roger Bacon reclining on a couch.
Once more the same old cell, the gray stone walls,
A little gloomier for the damp of years,
The cobwebs thicker, and the shelves that stood
Above my couch, with books that then I made
The treasure of my life, forbidden lore,
Now stript and bare; yet still, for all the change,
I breathe more freely here. These many months
I wearied of the sight that met my eyes,
The moss-grown courtyard and the cloistered walk,
The four high walls that shut the world from view,
While all I did, or waking or asleep,
Was open to espial; and the friars
Would stand and watch the casement, wondering still
If once again the wizard would return
To his dark arts, with necromantic rod
Call up the dead, or seek the mystic stone,
Transmuting all to gold, or make the stars
Unfold their secrets. Now at last I rest;
They know the end is coming, and their hearts
Beat with some touch of pity, conquering fear,
And leave me to myself, to sleep my sleep
Where my sick fancies lead me. Here, at least,
I look upon the fair green fields, and list
The lowing of the cattle; and the scent
Of meadow-sweet and cowslips upward floats,
As with a balmy power to soothe and lull
My fevered thoughts; and lo! at eve and morn
I see the golden sunlight, and it pours
Some warmth on these old limbs, benumbed and chilled
With long inaction.
And the end is near:
I know it by all signs that sages tell,
The dews that gather on the brow, the pulse
Both weak and fitful; and my wandering thoughts
Go backward o'er the vision of my life,
And the dim past resumes its outlines clear,
Its colours full and strong. The infant years,
The boy's first striving after name and fame,
The thirst that led me far beyond my peers
To drink deep waters at the wells of Truth;
The mind that could not rest, by wearing thoughts
Led on and on, to question evermore
All old traditions, living face to face
With Nature and her teaching. Then a change,
The turning-point of life, when Grosseteste came,
Wise, great, and good, and knowing all my needs,
Bade me renounce the world's bewildering pomps
And join the Brothers, then of world-wide fame,
Bound by the law which he, their Master, gave,
From fair Assisi on the Umbrian hills.
Thou saint of God, whose life to human eyes
Seemed as a madman's folly, and thine end
One without honour, now supremely blest
And numbered with the saints, I may not dare
To sit in judgment on thee. I have learnt
That lesson now, and wait till that great day,
Revealed by fire, shall try each artist's work,
And manifest its worth. Enough for me
To know thee true and noble, wide of heart,
And burning with the love that many floods
Of waters quench not. Others choose their loves
From out the fair and noble, woo and wed
Kings' daughters, or in youth and beauty find
What meets their soul's desire. Youth's wandering dreams
See many forms that beckon it to tread
This path or that. As once on Ida stood
Three goddess forms in glorious rivalry,
So now they strive for mastery. Wisdom first,
With clear, calm brow and star-crowned diadem,
And Pleasure with her cup of poisoned wine,
And Power all queenly, with her stately tread
And mighty sceptre;—thus they came once more
To lead his soul to bondage; but he made
Far other choice than did the Dardan youth,
And for his bride took one in whom he found
Divine, unearthly beauty, such as wins
The heart to love and worship, but to those
Who look with outward eyes, deformed and grim,
Stript of all form and brightness. Thee he chose,
Divinest Poverty, and gave to thee
A passionate devotion, such as knight
Gives to the dearest idol of his soul,
A chivalrous allegiance. As Christ lived,
The Lord and Master in whose path he trod,
So he lived, homeless, wandering, begging bread,
Sharing the peasant's hovel, unabashed
In face of kings and princes, fearing not
To kiss the leprous hand, as one might stoop
In homage to an emperor. Wondrous heart,
That owned no form of human abjectness
Too low for reverence, and threw down its glove
Before the strong and mighty of the earth,
In stern defiance claiming for the poor
Their portion in the Kingdom.
So I judge
At last, but then I measured not thy soul
As now I measure, and with colder heart
I took thy vows. To me at eve and morn,
In waking dream, or vision of the night,
The face of Knowledge looked from out the clouds
With such a wondrous beauty that I longed
To make her mine for ever. Nature spread
Her glorious treasures round me, and each path,
Through all her mighty labyrinth, seemed to lead
To that one shrine where Knowledge stood supreme
To crown her worshippers. What most I loved
Even in our Master was the heart that owned
Its fellowship with Nature. Mother earth
Was more to him than idle phrase of course;
The sun was as his brother, going forth
To bless both good and evil; air and fire
Were near of kin; and water pure and clear
Was as a sister, stainless as the moon
That walks in brightness. All the creatures came
Within the compass of his burning love,
His gospel of the Kingdom, and to all
He preached the great glad tidings, would not leave
The birds that sang, the flowers that breathed perfume,
And oped their golden bosoms to the sun,
Till they too joined the wondrous orison,
The mighty Jubilate. That to me
Was witness that I might unblamed pursue
My heart's strong master-passion, might embrace,
With all a lover's rapture, the fair form
Of Nature, and behold with wondering eyes
Her full unveilèd beauty. So I toiled
Through sleepless nights, and days that knew not rest,
Far up the steep ascent, and saw afar
My Queen in all her glory; so I learnt
The rising and the setting of the stars,
The secret springs of life and its decay,
And moved ahead of all my peers, alone,
Unresting, and unhasting. This is past;
My memory fails me, and they slip away,
The dreams and schemes that once were all in all,
As slips a sword from out a sick man's grasp:
Yet still I keep the sense of what has been,
The joy of having known, and own in this
The charm that kept me from the mire and clay
My feet might else have sunk in, yea, a spell
Against the dangers others of my robe
Have found too fatal. 'Twas not wisely done
On all to bind that ecstasy of love
Which revels in privations. Well for him,
The stainless-hearted knight of poverty,
That wandering through the world as one who lacks
His daily bread, but for the feebler souls
The beggar's life may bring the beggar's thoughts,
The sordid care, the coarse and earthly greed,
The baser that all gloss and finer touch
Are torn away, and nothing left to hide
The swine-like foulness.
So my life passed on,
Amid the strife of tongues, and war of sects,
Misjudged, condemned, and the good ground choked
With bitter roots of evil. Some I found
False friends, half-hearted, sharing aims and hopes
Until the winds blew roughly, then afraid
To face the pelting of the storm that beat
All fiercely on me. Some were open foes,
In very zeal for God; and here and there
Was one whose heart made answer unto mine,
As face meets face from out the crystal stream,
Another, yet the same, whose soul drank in
The wisdom that I gave him, and did grow,
As grow the trees well-watered of the Lord
In Eden's garden. One such faithful soul
I parted from long sinec, and in the night
Come haunting fears that on my hand there lies
The stain of blood, that I before the Throne
Am guilty of the waste of that fair life.
I sent him forth to brave the evil world,
The dangers of the city and the wild,
And know not of the issue. Did he die
In icy cavern on the Alpine heights?
Or did the death-sleep fall on weary frame,
The eternal snow his shroud of burial?
Or did the fever smite him in the marsh,
Or robbers strike him down, or lives he still,
Gaining, it may be, wealth and power and fame,
A teacher of the wisdom that I taught,
At Padua or Bologna? Have the years
Quickened his zeal, till like a two-edged sword
His word goes forth to slay the foes of truth,
Poor wanderers in the darkness? Darker yet,
Fouler the vision as my thoughts pass on,
Creeps he, as creeps a spaniel, in and out,
Through postern gate, and by-ways of the house;
A tyrant's minion, whispering at his ear
His scurril jests against the wise and good?
Not that, O God,—send any doom but that!
Yet I have known such downfalls, and the best,
Corrupted, prove the worst; and I would give
What life still lies before me, rather say,
I would drag on its burden ten years more,
To know him free from evil. Since he went
The days have gone more wearily; old age
Has chilled the veins, and clouded o'er the skies;
And, as in penalty for that my sin
Which for my weak pride risked a brother's soul,
Ten dreary years in prison, where the Seine
Flows by the dungeon walls, have tamed my strength.
I am not what I was, and have not found,
All wanderings over, where to plant my feet
Amid these tossings of uncertain seas,
And howlings of the tempest. Fair outspread
Before the body's eye is that rich sky,
Where clear dark azure slopes to golden blaze,
Through thousand orient, hyacinthine hues,
A very sky of opal; but within
The heaven is dark, and neither sun nor star
For many days appeareth. I have lost
My grasp upon the faith my brothers hold:
Their Creeds and Aves cannot stay my soul;
And the wide thoughts I had of that great Mind,
The life and breathing spirit of the world,
These flit before me cold and colourless,
As spectres of the dead amid the snow,
And have no power to comfort. Must I pray
His prayer, who, launching out upon the dark
Dim sea of death, thus uttered all his soul:
“My life began in shame, wore on in care;
Trembling I pass beyond the bourn of earth,
Causa causarum, miserere mei.”
Oh! for some voice to bid the spectres flee,
As clear and calm and strong as once I heard
Those parting notes, which come to me at times,
Like music of sweet chimes across a lake,
Or breeze, balm-laden, o'er a dreary sea.
It may not be. I sigh and moan in vain;
I die alone;—through all the vacant air
No speech, no answer.
Enter Joannes.
Who is this that comes
So late? The dusk of twilight hides from me
Thy face, my brother. Thou perchance art come,
Anselm, or Francis, at our Prior's behest,
To do the last kind office. It is well;
I would not die unhouselled; ye may claim
That reverence from me. But as yet no need
For pressing haste; confession, unction, prayer,
I scorn them not; but tarry for a while,
Till morning comes again. For these few hours
Leave me to mine own communings.
Joan.
For this
I come not, father, am not one of those,
Thy brethren, or thy gaolers, but for love
Of our dear Lord, and memory of past years,
I seek thy cell, have wandered far and wide
To seek it, and at last have found thee here,
Sick, weary, dying, and I fain would pay
A heavy debt of thirty years ago,
And tend thee to the last.

Bacon.
I thank thee, son,
Whoe'er thou art. Most debtors are not wont
To have such memories. Thou, it seems, art one
Who waits not to be asked, but does forthwith
What conscience bids him. Yet thy task is vain:
What need have I of payment of old debts?
Time was I might have welcomed heaped-up coins,
To help my search for knowledge, wrought at length
The alchemy which, carried to its height,
Had brought me to that quintessence of gold,
Transmuting baser metals, giving life,
With power to heal all sickness. As I am,
I care not for it, cannot use it. Keep
Thy money to thyself; or if thou shrink,—
As something noble in thy tone and speech
Warns me thou wilt,—from usufruct of that
Which is not thine, bestow it on the poor;
Search out some scholar, struggling, naked, spent,
And give him food and raiment; clear away
The stones that wound his feet, the briars that tear,
As upward on that steep ascent he climbs,
Where thou hast climbed before him.

Joan.
Nay, my father,
I speak not of the debt which coin can pay;
I come as one who owes himself to thee,
And must return thine own with usury.
I was that scholar, struggling, naked, spent,
And thou did'st clothe and feed me. Thou did'st snatch
My spirit from the toys of childhood's sense,
My life from off the husks the swine did eat,
And led me on to wider thoughts, a life
Of nobler aims. Thine ever-watchful eye
Kept my young heart from taint of base desire,
And so I sank not in the graves of lust,
As others sank around me. Can I fail
To own that debt which only God can pay,
And ask thee to take all, my heart, myself?

Bacon.
Thy words, my son, wake echoes in the void
Of what was once a heart, with hopes and fears,
The sorrows and the joys which come to all;
And yet they fail to tell me who thou art.
Through those past years, (thank God, at least, for that!)
I have known many such, have rendered help
To many wanderers—yea, have done my best
To lead them in the bright crystalline path,
In the white robes of God's anointed priests;
And I have seen on many a lofty brow
The unseen cross that, traced by angel hands,
Marked them as Christ's true soldiers, watched the growth
Of knowledge, and the fruit that brings not now
The stern death-sentence, but is fair and sweet,
And pleasant to the eyes, and makes of toil
(For still we eat our bread with sweat of brow)
One life-long Sabbath. Give some token true
By which from out those faces of the past,
All clear and bright, I may discern the one
Which now I know is near, yet cannot see.

Joan.
Thou wilt remember, sure, one winter's morn
When one such young disciple went his way
To do thy errand, chanting, as he went,
The hymn that thou had'st taught him. So he sang,
Thy words of blessing ringing in his ears,
“Sint pura cordis intima,
Absistat et vecordia.”
And thus he poured his matin orison—
“Jam lucis orto sidere,
Deum precemur supplices.”

Bacon.
God gives
His answer to my passionate complaint;
I see thee then at last. Thou hast not failed
To bring the golden promise of thy youth
Up to its full perfection. Still thy voice
Speaks of thine inner life; thy music comes
Clear, strong, and manly, as of old it came,
And wakes, as then, an echo in my heart,
Till now too long in silence. Wondrous power
Of that high strain of noble minstrelsy
Our fathers left us, holiest thoughts to stir,
Joy's rapture, and the hush of solemn fears!
We lose the power by all our petty aims,
Our boyish tricks of art. We hear not now
That grand old music, but the voice untrue,
The mock falsetto, thrills through ear and brain,
Melting, not strengthening. Thou, I see, art still
True to thy master; still thou pressest on
Through worthiest paths to highest excellence.
Ah! could we gain the height, and search the depth
Of that dread secret of the might of sound,
Who knows but man, in harmony with God,
Might learn the music which the angels love,
The concord of the starry heavens that move
Melodious in their courses, join with them
In that great hymn which rises evermore
From all creation, use God's gift of song,
With Orphic power to tame the stubborn beast,
To stop the wild bird in its swift-winged flight,
To charm the venomed serpent, and stand up,
With all things in subjection at his feet,
Lord of a world in order. So should man
Come to his brother man with power to soothe
All sorrow, purify each low desire,
Illumine clouded vision. Here would be
The true elixir; Age itself would lose
Its pain, its weakness, soothed and lulled to rest
By that divinest music, and would find
The discord of its life attuned and hushed
In that its Euthanasia. So, of old,
The minstrel-boy who stood before the king,
Through all the madness found the human soul,
Sang to it of the deeds of heroes old,
The wonders of the outstretched arm of God,
The marvel and the mystery of His love,
And brought it back to life; so, nearer still
To what has passed but now, the gray-haired seer,
His vision failing, and prophetic pulse
No longer beating quickly, bade one fetch
A minstrel youth to stir the ebbing life,
And then gave forth his counsel. So, my son,
I list to thee with thrillings of the heart,
Each nerve in tension. Ere the hour be past,
Ere age resumes its weakness, and cold mists
Of dim oblivion shroud me, tell thy tale,
The story of thy life. Through these long years
My heart has been with thine, and I have wrought
(Fancy still working in my waking dreams)
Whole epics for thee, full of noblest deeds,
Thyself the hero—sometimes, unawares,
Have glided into thoughts of darkest doom,
And seen thy life a tragedy to chill
The very blood with horror. Now, at last,
The poet's work is done, and thou wilt tell
What goes beyond it all. I long to hear
How fared it with thee, how with that thy trust
I thought so much of then, but now have learnt
To leave in other hands.

Joan.
I will not tell—
Thou wouldst not wish it—all the varied scenes
Through which my life has led me: cities old,
Dark forest glooms, or mountain heights of snow,
Wide plains, all golden with the waving corn,
Or fair hill-sides, where climbs the purpling vine.
Enough, I reached my goal. At Rome's great gate
I stood, and there, in presence of her lord,
Vicar of Christ, stood trembling. In his hands
I placed the treasure I received from thee,
And did mine office truly.

Bacon.
Ah! and then ...
What said he? Did he commune much with thee?
Learn of thee what the parchments could not tell?
Take counsel how to work the mighty change
I set before him? Which of all the three
Seemed most to stir him? Death, I know, cut off
Completion of my hopes; but I were glad
To know he shared them.

Joan.
'Tis not mine to tell
The secrets of his purpose. All I heard
Were some few words of kindness. He rejoiced
To hear that thou wert free. It grieved him sore
When knowledge brought but sorrow. If I stayed
In Rome, he hoped to see me. Then he took
Thy crystal sphere, and poised it in his hand,
And smiled to see the bending of the rays,
The point that kindled fire—“These things were strange,
And it was well some men should care for them,
And give the world amusement. For thy books,
He would ere long, when pressing cares of state,
And holier duties left him time enough,
Give them some hours of leisure.” That was all.
Nay, nay, my father, grieve not. So the world
Runs on: its fame, its favours, will not stay
The spirit in the Judgment. Well for thee
The reed broke down and pierced thee.

Bacon.
Was that all?
No care for thee, no honour, no support,
High office, state of teacher, as I asked?

Joan.
Some few months passed, and now and then there came
A kindly smile, and then I saw no more.
He died, and I was left in Rome alone,
A stranger, friendless. And my soul was sick
To see and hear the words and deeds of men
In that great city. Where the church should be
At oneness with itself, were strife and hate;
Where I had hoped to find Jerusalem,
City of peace, and peopled with the good,
The pure, the pitiful, the meek, I found
But Sodoma and Babel. Lust and hate,
Time-serving greed, and wisdom of the schools
Well-tuned for princes' favour; what was this
To one whom thou had'st trained to nobler thoughts?
Weary of life, I turned away, and wiped
The very dust of that accursed place
From off my feet, and in my sorrow sought
A refuge elsewhere. So, for seven long years
I journeyed through those old Italian towns,
And sat and listened as the teachers gave
Their stores of knowledge to the wondering crowd.
And here again, my father, thou had'st spoiled
Thy pupil for the common grooves of life.
I learnt from thee to face the living fact,
To question Nature, bow before her throne,
And do her heartiest homage. There I found
One name in Nature's place, enthroned supreme,
Words changing place with things, and all engrossed
With subtle weaving of their cobweb thoughts,
As if their barren logic would unlock
The store of Nature's wonders. Most of all,
My heart was faint and weary when I heard
The words they spake of God. Thy loving care
Had led me to the fount of heavenly truth,
The very words of prophet, psalmist, saint,
Of One above them all; and I had owned
Their power to quicken. Now I found those words
Forgotten, lost, misrendered; jangling talk,
Words without knowledge, darkening counsel, husks
Not even swine could feed on. Darker yet,
Where'er I went I heard thy name reviled:
The man whom I had known as father, friend,
Whose sheltering hand had guarded me from taint,
And taught me truth in all things; he it was
Whom every teacher warned his flock against
As heretic, magician, infidel;
And when I spake thy name men frowned on me,
Shrank from my contact, counselled me to go
Lest evil should befall me. Most of all,
The brothers of our Order vexed my soul,
Condemning thee unheard. The man whose words
I fondly deemed seraphic, from whose lips
I hoped to drink the untainted stream of life,
Stood forth as thy accuser. Soon I heard
Of thy long, hopeless exile, sought in vain
Admission to thee, where by Notre-Dame
The Seine flows swiftly; then, perplexed and sad,
Went forth once more a wanderer through the world.

Bacon.
Was it then so? I deemed myself bereaved
Of help and pity; and thy hand was near
That might have soothed my anguish, and thy voice
Ev'n within ear-shot. Once indeed I thought
Through the cold stillness of a midnight air
Came floating sounds of sweetest minstrelsy,
The sounds of that old chant of Merton's choir
I taught thee long ago, and then it passed,
And I awoke and found it but a dream.
Wert thou then near, and did thy prayers go up
For him who pined in loneliness? At least
Thou hast found comfort. Voice and words declare
Thou art not now perplexed, but speak'st as one
Who sees his way distinctly, knows the law
That governs all his life, and needs not now
The help of human friend. How came it so?
What teaching led thee from thy dull despair,
And gave thee comfort?

Joan.
Wandering, as I said,
I came to where the broad and stately Rhine
Flows by Colonia. There it chanced I met
A brother of our Order, one who said
He knew thee, loved thee. Not from him I heard
The trite reproach, the worn-out calumny:
He spake as one whose eyes had looked thee through,
And seen thy strength and weakness. To that man
(Bertholdt his name, he came from Regensburg)
I owe my second self. Like him who found
The traveller robbed and naked on the way,
Bound up his wounds, and poured in oil and wine,
So he stretched forth the hand of brotherhood,
And led me, poor and weary as I was,
Foot-sore, and spent with travelling through the waste,
Beneath the shadow of the Eternal Rock.

Bacon.
Bertholdt! I knew him well long years ago.
He preached at Paris, and his words came straight
As arrows to their mark. Whilst others prosed,
Begging or borrowing, when they dared not steal;
While bishops droned o'er postills trite and poor,
And chaplains drowsed o'er thread-bare homilies,
His work was true and living. As of old
The prophets spake and read the thoughts of men,
Revealing all their secrets, so he spake,
And all my soul was kindled for a while,
And my heart flowed in love. But other things
Came in to mar the friendship thus begun:
That higher wisdom which I then pursued,
The working out that scheme of perspective,
The digging up those roots of Hebrew speech—
This hindered our communion.

Joan.
Ah! he told
With tears that story. Bear with me, I pray,
If I speak somewhat boldly, telling thee
What words he uttered. “One there was,” he said,
“Whom God chose out, elect above the rest,
A vessel of His truth,—the spirit clear,
The heart untainted, patience to endure,
And faith to move the mountain, courage true,
With no respect of persons,—all are his,
Each gift of high, commanding intellect:
Yet lacks he one thing.” And when I, amazed,
Looked wondering what defect or secret sin
His vision had detected, so he spake—
“Lacks one thing only, but that one is all:
God's kingdom and the righteousness thereof.
To live in Love; to see the Father's will,
That forms and rules the secrets of our life;
To count all knowledge, wisdom, mysteries,
As poor and trifling, Love alone supreme;
To see that Love throughout the world, and find
A central oneness in the heart of life,
Using each moment for the praise of God,
The good of men, our brothers:—this he needs
Before he finds completeness. Such a soul
God will not leave to sink in slothful ease,
But goad it on, nor leave it peace or rest,
Till it too learns at last how hard it is
To kick against the pricks.”

Bacon.
Thy voice is changed,
My son, since last we met. Time was when thou
With wondering eyes would'st look upon my face
With faith approaching worship. Then I seemed
Thy one true teacher. Now it seems thou own'st
Another as thy master. Be it so.
So runs the world, as thou did'st say but now.
The old withdraw; thou lookest for their place,
And find'st them nowhere. This, at least, I boast:
I sowed the seed, though others reap the fruits;
I laboured; they have entered on my toil.

Joan.
Nay, father, 'tis not that I love thee less,
But, as thou taughtest, love the truth yet more,
That thus I speak. I come to pay my debt:
Thou gav'st me knowledge of the things of earth,
The wonders of this mighty universe;
I bring thee knowledge of the things of God,
The peace that passeth knowledge. Hear my tale,
The witness as of one who once was blind
And now sees clearly. Bertholdt's words of love
First drew me to him, yes, his love for thee;
And so I stayed and listened. Soon I found,
Strange contrast to the evils of the world,
Till then unknown, a life of grace and truth,
Labour, and love, and peace, and purity,
As from a clear bright mirror, giving back
The image of the glory of the Lord;
A life like Christ's, although no prints of nails
Marked hands or feet. There all the juggling tricks,
The schools' dead logic, tangled subtleties,
Were heard no longer. O'er the living Word,
Needing no senses mystic, secret, dark,
They prayed and pondered. One I heard had spent
Full forty years upon it, and declared
He stood but as a child upon the shore
Of Truth's eternal ocean. So their life
Steered clear, amid the tempests of our time,
Of shoal and whirlpool. Poor they were indeed,
But did not make their poverty their boast,
Nor serve it as an idol. Daily bread
They gained by daily work, and of their own
Gave to the poor around them. Books they had,
Not scorning, nor o'erprizing, and they taught
The young, as thou did'st teach. And when the plague
Swept sore among the nations, they were seen
Fearless, unshrinking, healing, if God willed,
Or else consoling. By the sick man's bed
They knelt and prayed in living words of power,
The Eternal Spirit's utterance. Music there
Was no poor art to kindle vague desire,
Nor pride and glory of a minstrel's skill,
In hall or bower, or high cathedral choir,
But God's great gift for building up His Church.
There found I all thy words had made me dream:
They went, those brothers, and with holiest hymns,
Not Latin only, such as clerks admire,
But in that native speech of Almaine towns,
The sick and dying roused to thoughts of hope;
And so they too made answer to the song;
Their own best thoughts were echoed to their ears,
And e'en the poorest heard the glad good news
Of God's great Kingdom.

Bacon.
It is well, my son,
As night's dark shadows fall upon my life,
That I should see the brightness of a dawn
Upon the night of nations. All my life
Such dreams have come before me, but they seemed
Like palaces of Gods, that men have seen
Far off upon the mountains; pleasant climes,
Isles of the blessed, on a purple sea,
Where sinks the sun in ocean. Now, behold,
They come in living forms, mine eyes have seen,
Ear heard, hands felt them. Did I say but now
Thy voice had kindled old prophetic fires?
Lo! the fire burns, and will not be restrained.
I see in this thou tell'st me what will grow
Through all the ages. There the word of life
Falls on the good ground, and it will not fail
Of plenteous harvest, though another reap
What ye are sowing. O'er this land of ours,
This England, torn by fiercest strife of blood,
This city of fair waters, where, as yet,
Men wage in darkness ceaseless strife of tongues,
The truth shall travel freely. Yes, from thee,
From those thy helpmates in the life of God,—
Your names forgotten; by-words of reproach
Heaped on you by your tyrants,—there shall spring
Wide blessings for the world. The age to come,
Of which I see the promise clear and bright,
Like yon fair streaks which in the distant East
Tell of the day-star's dawn, shall do the work
To which your hands were set, and men shall own
In you the first to light the lamp of truth,
To give the promise of a Church renewed,
A life at one with God. In that blest hope
I die at peace. I shall not see those days;
But as the seer stood once on Pisgah's height,
Looking on plains and rivers, woods and hills,
All Jordan's windings, Shechem's pleasant vale,
Fair Carmel in the west, so stand I now
Upon my watch-tower, and behold in faith
The King in all His beauty, with His Bride,
Bright as the eternal morning. So I find
My own poor life transfigured. If I look
Back on the past, I see but wasted years,
The vexing wanderings of a vain research
For things that did not profit. All my cry
In hour of death, and at the judgment seat,
Were I to gaze upon that past alone,
Would be but one long wailing of despair:
“O Lord our God! we sin exceedingly;”
But He, the King, forgives me all that debt,
And in the ocean of His tideless love
I plunge, and rise, new-born, to higher life,
And the low moan gives way to songs of praise,
As when the elders round the golden throne
Cast their bright crowns upon the crystal sea.
So peace has come at last.

[Falls back in a trance.
Joan.
God's love be praised,
I have not come in vain. The prayers are heard
That rose at morn and eve, on stormy seas,
Or where red watch-fires light the tented field.
I thought to lull his weary frame to sleep
With soft low murmurs of an anthem sweet,
That I have known bring brightness to the eyes
Of wounded soldiers in their fevered pain,
And lepers in their lazar-house. My voice
He needs no more. Our God upon his soul
Hath poured the floods of music mightier far
Than our poor skill can dream of. Let Him end
What thus He has begun.

Bacon.
[Joannes moves him to the window.

[Dies.
Joan.
So I close
The eyes that now have seen the Light of Life,
And make once more my lonely pilgimage,
And track once more the windings of the stream;
The same old burden still upon my lips—
Sint pura cordis intima.

[Exit.