Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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The Monk and the Water Spirit.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Monk and the Water Spirit.
'T is Paschal tide, and the soft winds blow
From hawthorn branches drifts of snow,
Driving the bees in a cluster forth,
As the loud wild breath of the wintry North
Scares the rooks with its warning shout,
When it tosses the nests in the elms about;
And the tree, a prey to the rude storm's teeth,
Falls and crushes the kine beneath;
And the rough blast down the chimney bore,
Startles dull sleep with its muffled roar.
From hawthorn branches drifts of snow,
Driving the bees in a cluster forth,
As the loud wild breath of the wintry North
Scares the rooks with its warning shout,
When it tosses the nests in the elms about;
And the tree, a prey to the rude storm's teeth,
Falls and crushes the kine beneath;
And the rough blast down the chimney bore,
Startles dull sleep with its muffled roar.
Like little barks the bees flew out,
And sailed through the flower-stalks round about;
While some steer back to their secret hold,
Laden deep with the liquid gold;
Up in the vaulted blue so high
Sings the lone hermit of the sky;
And like the nuns that heed not Spring,
Their ceaseless psalms the throstles sing;
The sparrow, that 'mid the long grass feeds,
Shakes from the blade the dewy beads.
And sailed through the flower-stalks round about;
While some steer back to their secret hold,
Laden deep with the liquid gold;
Up in the vaulted blue so high
Sings the lone hermit of the sky;
And like the nuns that heed not Spring,
Their ceaseless psalms the throstles sing;
The sparrow, that 'mid the long grass feeds,
Shakes from the blade the dewy beads.
Slow pacing through the forest cloister,
Came a lone monk, chanting a Paternoster;
His rosary hung from his long thin arm,
He wore a crown of the faded palm;
The moss was soft to his sandalled feet,
As seraph's breath the flowers smelt sweet.
Hollow and worn, and meagre and wan,
Was the sunken face of that childless man.
He saw the young birds 'mid the boughs,
With a dull, sad aching throb his brows.
Came a lone monk, chanting a Paternoster;
His rosary hung from his long thin arm,
He wore a crown of the faded palm;
The moss was soft to his sandalled feet,
As seraph's breath the flowers smelt sweet.
Hollow and worn, and meagre and wan,
Was the sunken face of that childless man.
He saw the young birds 'mid the boughs,
With a dull, sad aching throb his brows.
He sees the twin flowers on the stem,
Yet knows God's sweet dew nourishes them.
The clouds drift past by twos and threes,
No leaf stands single on the trees;
The doves together stem the wind,
One common nest they seek and find;
The hollow murmurs of their note
Like echoes through the branches float.
The very insects swarm together,
And dance amid the sunny weather.
Yet knows God's sweet dew nourishes them.
The clouds drift past by twos and threes,
No leaf stands single on the trees;
The doves together stem the wind,
One common nest they seek and find;
The hollow murmurs of their note
Like echoes through the branches float.
The very insects swarm together,
And dance amid the sunny weather.
Veiled in the twilight of his cowl,
The wind seems to him the devil's howl.
But the bird's song rises an angel's prayer,
Cleaving the blue and crystal air,
Until it reaches God's throne above,
And fades in ecstacy of love.
Now from his missal's golden leaves
Visions of Paradise he weaves;
And from the bright page on his knee
He chants a solemn Litany.
The wind seems to him the devil's howl.
But the bird's song rises an angel's prayer,
Cleaving the blue and crystal air,
Until it reaches God's throne above,
And fades in ecstacy of love.
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Visions of Paradise he weaves;
And from the bright page on his knee
He chants a solemn Litany.
Fourteen years last Pentecost,
Came he to this lonely coast;
He did not come for doles, for alms,
From hot Egypt and its palms,
But for the blessed Jesus' sake,
To the shore of Breddyn's reedy lake.
Many a Candlemas fled past,
Many a Yule has followed fast,
Many springs have passed away,
Many a morning grown to day.
Came he to this lonely coast;
He did not come for doles, for alms,
From hot Egypt and its palms,
But for the blessed Jesus' sake,
To the shore of Breddyn's reedy lake.
Many a Candlemas fled past,
Many a Yule has followed fast,
Many springs have passed away,
Many a morning grown to day.
Sudden through the long dark glade,
A fawn stepped forth from out the shade;
A wreath of flowers was on its neck;
It came unto the lone monk's beck,
And lead him slowly through the wood
To where a broken cross there stood;
And in a valley girt with trees,
That waved and beckoned in the breeze,
He sees a lake spread broad and clear,
A lake he never knew was here.
A fawn stepped forth from out the shade;
A wreath of flowers was on its neck;
It came unto the lone monk's beck,
And lead him slowly through the wood
To where a broken cross there stood;
And in a valley girt with trees,
That waved and beckoned in the breeze,
He sees a lake spread broad and clear,
A lake he never knew was here.
Then slowly rose from the lucid stream,
Like a thought of joy in a lover's dream,
A lady, pale, but O how fair!
Like wavering moonlight fell her hair,
And o'er a breast would shame the snow,
In torrents rippled to and fro;
Her eyes, as dark as winter night,
Grew radiant with a starry light;
She spoke not, but she smiled and signed,
And music filled the forest wind.
Like a thought of joy in a lover's dream,
A lady, pale, but O how fair!
Like wavering moonlight fell her hair,
And o'er a breast would shame the snow,
In torrents rippled to and fro;
Her eyes, as dark as winter night,
Grew radiant with a starry light;
She spoke not, but she smiled and signed,
And music filled the forest wind.
Then, like a lily folding up
Its shrinking leaves in its silver cup,
She slowly sank into the flood,
Not like a mortal of flesh and blood;
And through the reeds, like a parting dirge,
The low wind-murmurs creep and surge.
Once more she rose, she held a crown,
And smiled no more, but a cruel frown
Lit up her face as she stretched her hand
To the monk, who stood on the reedy sand.
Its shrinking leaves in its silver cup,
She slowly sank into the flood,
Not like a mortal of flesh and blood;
And through the reeds, like a parting dirge,
The low wind-murmurs creep and surge.
Once more she rose, she held a crown,
And smiled no more, but a cruel frown
Lit up her face as she stretched her hand
To the monk, who stood on the reedy sand.
The winter had come, and the woodmen struck:
The choicest boughs from the trees they pluck;
They trampled down the tangled flowers,
And drove the fawn from its ferny bowers;
When they reached the lake they saw on the bank,
Dead in the lake where the heron drank,
The long-robed monk, and his white beard floats
On the tide-like weeds; while mournful notes
The weeping willow sighs, and grieves
To the waves that kiss its drooping leaves.
The choicest boughs from the trees they pluck;
They trampled down the tangled flowers,
And drove the fawn from its ferny bowers;
When they reached the lake they saw on the bank,
Dead in the lake where the heron drank,
The long-robed monk, and his white beard floats
On the tide-like weeds; while mournful notes
The weeping willow sighs, and grieves
To the waves that kiss its drooping leaves.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |