 | Ballads and Verses of the Spiritual Life |  |
80
Refugium Peccatorum
“For all human things do require to have an ideal in them . . . were
it only to keep the body unputrefied.”—Carlyle
Our Lady's chapel is ablaze with light
That burns against the close-pressed face of night;
The echo of long centuries of prayer
Is mingled with the incense in the air,
And every soul that once breathed there a vow
Joins with the souls of those who pray there now.
That burns against the close-pressed face of night;
The echo of long centuries of prayer
Is mingled with the incense in the air,
And every soul that once breathed there a vow
Joins with the souls of those who pray there now.
And there, within the taper's softened glow,
Amid the flowers that in girls' gardens grow,
The lovely image of the Mother stands—
Stands with her little baby in her hands,
And in her eyes, and in her perfect face,
The eternal promise of ideal grace.
Amid the flowers that in girls' gardens grow,
The lovely image of the Mother stands—
Stands with her little baby in her hands,
And in her eyes, and in her perfect face,
The eternal promise of ideal grace.
A woman, passing down the quiet street,
Heard sudden sound of singing voices sweet
That seemed to call her in from out the night
To where it rose, through floods of softened light.
The music caught and held her sense as fast
As souls are held by fetters of their past.
Heard sudden sound of singing voices sweet
That seemed to call her in from out the night
To where it rose, through floods of softened light.
The music caught and held her sense as fast
As souls are held by fetters of their past.
81
O Mother-maiden—what a woman-face!
Sordidly sensual, unlovely, base,
Scored with coarse lines burnt in by years of wrong,
Stamped with the signet of the vile and strong;
Hopeless, impure, with eyes unwashed by tears
Through many soulless, desecrated years.
Sordidly sensual, unlovely, base,
Scored with coarse lines burnt in by years of wrong,
Stamped with the signet of the vile and strong;
Hopeless, impure, with eyes unwashed by tears
Through many soulless, desecrated years.
She sat there stupid, broken, lost, defiled,
Before pure mother and ideal child;
She on whose barren breast no little hand
Had ever rested in divine command,
She who had never known the unnamed bliss
Which thrills a mother through her baby's kiss.
Before pure mother and ideal child;
She on whose barren breast no little hand
Had ever rested in divine command,
She who had never known the unnamed bliss
Which thrills a mother through her baby's kiss.
How strange and sweet that music was! She heard
The clear note of a long-forgotten bird—
A certain thrush which used to come and sing
Upon the sweet-plumed lilac in the spring
When she was young, and there was time to think
Of other things than devilry and drink.
The clear note of a long-forgotten bird—
A certain thrush which used to come and sing
Upon the sweet-plumed lilac in the spring
When she was young, and there was time to think
Of other things than devilry and drink.
That cottage garden—with its hollyhocks
Each side the porch—its gray and purple stocks,
The sweetbriar hedge, the climbing yellow rose,
How long it was since she had thought of those!
Such memories quickly fade in gaslit hours,
'Mid patchouli and tawdry hothouse flowers.
Each side the porch—its gray and purple stocks,
The sweetbriar hedge, the climbing yellow rose,
How long it was since she had thought of those!
Such memories quickly fade in gaslit hours,
'Mid patchouli and tawdry hothouse flowers.
There was a church at home—she minded well
Its ghastly tales of sin and death and hell;
Yet it was pleasant in the summer days
To walk there through the quiet meadow ways
And through the cornfields where the poppies grow—
Or grew once—bright as life seemed, long ago.
Its ghastly tales of sin and death and hell;
Yet it was pleasant in the summer days
To walk there through the quiet meadow ways
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Or grew once—bright as life seemed, long ago.
And then the churchyard on the thymy hill
Where the bees murmur and the world is still,
One grave is there wherein there buried lies
Something beyond a mother's heart and eyes:
A woman's soul—her soul—might have been spared
Had there been any one on earth who cared.
Where the bees murmur and the world is still,
One grave is there wherein there buried lies
Something beyond a mother's heart and eyes:
A woman's soul—her soul—might have been spared
Had there been any one on earth who cared.
Hark—someone's speaking! Listen, what says he?
“In that dear heaven, where we all may be,
A Lady sits with the divinest eyes
Whose starry depths are still with Paradise.
She sits and looks upon this world of ours
And sees alike its sunshine and its showers.
“In that dear heaven, where we all may be,
A Lady sits with the divinest eyes
Whose starry depths are still with Paradise.
She sits and looks upon this world of ours
And sees alike its sunshine and its showers.
“And all her heart is overfull of love
For this poor world she knows the hardness of;
And when we are sad, she sighs and longs to rest
Our aching heads on her divinest breast;
But when we sin, she weeps we are beguiled
So far from her and from her little Child.
For this poor world she knows the hardness of;
And when we are sad, she sighs and longs to rest
Our aching heads on her divinest breast;
But when we sin, she weeps we are beguiled
So far from her and from her little Child.
“She weeps for us who sin—how can we dare
In such a mother's heart plant grief and care?
She who is all we might be if we would,
Lovely and loving, gracious, great, and good;
Only not happy—how can she be glad
While all men sin, and, sinning, are made sad?
In such a mother's heart plant grief and care?
She who is all we might be if we would,
Lovely and loving, gracious, great, and good;
Only not happy—how can she be glad
While all men sin, and, sinning, are made sad?
83
“But saddest tears of all are those that rise,
Through the clear radiance of those crystal eyes,
When women sin—the women who might be
Mothers as pure or maids as clean as she;
Women whose souls might be as chaste and clear
As the calm eyes of her, divine and dear.”
Through the clear radiance of those crystal eyes,
When women sin—the women who might be
Mothers as pure or maids as clean as she;
Women whose souls might be as chaste and clear
As the calm eyes of her, divine and dear.”
The worshippers had slowly passed away,
And one by one turned to their work or play;
And one by one the dying tapers left
The church of all its golden glow bereft:
Only, before our Lady's altar, one
Love-lighted little twinkling taper shone.
And one by one turned to their work or play;
And one by one the dying tapers left
The church of all its golden glow bereft:
Only, before our Lady's altar, one
Love-lighted little twinkling taper shone.
Still with that peace which is the smile of God,
The priest along the empty chapel trod,
When—Is the chapel empty? then what stirred
The silence with that half-articulate word?
What breathed? Who sobbed? And what hand has he passed
Thrust through the darkness, caught, and held him fast?
The priest along the empty chapel trod,
When—Is the chapel empty? then what stirred
The silence with that half-articulate word?
What breathed? Who sobbed? And what hand has he passed
Thrust through the darkness, caught, and held him fast?
“Is it all true—about the Paradise,
And the dear lady with the crystal eyes,
And all her tears and loving—is it true?
This is a woman speaks—a woman, too,
Whom shame and sin have crushed and pressed awry
From all her possible peace and purity.
And the dear lady with the crystal eyes,
And all her tears and loving—is it true?
This is a woman speaks—a woman, too,
Whom shame and sin have crushed and pressed awry
From all her possible peace and purity.
“It is not true—speak, is it true?” she cried.
“True as your sorrow, child,” the priest replied.
“But not for me—she does not weep for me,
Unworthy even of her memory?
She weeps for those who do a little wrong,
Not me—who outraged her my whole life long.”
“True as your sorrow, child,” the priest replied.
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Unworthy even of her memory?
She weeps for those who do a little wrong,
Not me—who outraged her my whole life long.”
“She weeps the most for those whose hearts most bleed.”
“Then, O my heart, she weeps for us indeed.
So, I can not go back. It shall not be
That she shall ever weep again for me.
O save me, save me! once that threshold crossed,
Her crystal eyes must weep me—doubly lost!”
“Then, O my heart, she weeps for us indeed.
So, I can not go back. It shall not be
That she shall ever weep again for me.
O save me, save me! once that threshold crossed,
Her crystal eyes must weep me—doubly lost!”
Outside the church the night pressed closely round,
Dark as despair, as wide and as profound.
Within, the one small taper kept at bay
All evil dreams that through the darkness stray,
“Here shall you stay—safe, and no longer sad,
Since o'er your soul God's angels have grown glad.
Dark as despair, as wide and as profound.
Within, the one small taper kept at bay
All evil dreams that through the darkness stray,
“Here shall you stay—safe, and no longer sad,
Since o'er your soul God's angels have grown glad.
“Before our Lady's altar kneel and pray,
Counsel of light will come with light of day,
And point us to some pathway, wherein you
May leave your past, and shape your life anew,
Fit for her eyes to see. Her mother-care
Shall keep your future undefiled and fair!”
Counsel of light will come with light of day,
And point us to some pathway, wherein you
May leave your past, and shape your life anew,
Fit for her eyes to see. Her mother-care
Shall keep your future undefiled and fair!”
Before our Lady's light all night she lay
Too passionately penitent to pray;
Only within her heart the waves of woe
And joy went agonising to and fro.
“Thou lovest me. I am safe beside thy feet.
Have pity on me—Mother-maiden sweet.”
Too passionately penitent to pray;
Only within her heart the waves of woe
And joy went agonising to and fro.
85
Have pity on me—Mother-maiden sweet.”
The morning sunrise glorifies the face
Of Mary, Mother of ideal grace,
Touches the poor soiled face that has grown gray
Through rouge the tears have but half washed away;
She does not weep now—does not breathe nor stir,
The Maiden Mother has had pity on her.
Of Mary, Mother of ideal grace,
Touches the poor soiled face that has grown gray
Through rouge the tears have but half washed away;
She does not weep now—does not breathe nor stir,
The Maiden Mother has had pity on her.
| Ballads and Verses of the Spiritual Life | |