Around him were the tumbled blocks and crags,Huge ridges and sharp juts of flinty peaks,Black caves, and masses of the grim, bald rock.The ethereal, unfathomable sky,Hung over him, the valley lay beneath,Dotted with yellow hayricks, that exhaledSweet, healthy odors to the mountain-top.He breathed intoxicate the infinite air,And plucked the heather blossoms where they blew,Reckless with light and dew, in crannies green,And scarcely saw their darling bells for tears.No sounds of labor reached him from the farmsAnd hamlets trim, nor from the furrowed glebe;But a serene and sabbath stillness reigned,Till broken by the faint, melodious chimesOf the small village church that called to prayer.He hurried down the rugged, scarped cliff,And swung himself from shelving granite slopesTo narrow foot-holds, near wide-throated chasms,Tearing against the sharp stones his bleeding hands,With long hair flying from his dripping brow,Uncovered head, and white, exalted face.No memory had he of his smooth ascent,No thought of fear upon those dreadful hills;He only heard the bell, inviting himTo satisfy the craving of his heart,For worship 'midst his fellow men. He reachedThe beaten, dusty road, and passed thereonThe pious peasants faring towards the church,And scarce refrained from greeting them like friendsDearly beloved, after long absence met.How more than fair the sunburnt wenches looked,In their rough, homespun gowns and coifs demure,After the beauty of bare, rosy limbs,And odorous, loose hair! He noted notSuspicious glances on his garb uncouth,His air extravagant and face distraught,With bursts of laughter from the red-cheeked boys,And prudent crossings of the women's breasts.He passed the flowering close about the church,And trod the well worn-path, with throbbing heart,The little heather-bell between his lips,And his eyes fastened on the good green grass.Thus entered he the sanctuary, litWith frequent tapers, and with sunbeams stainedThrough painted glass. How pure and innocentThe waiting congregation seemed to him,Kneeling, or seated with calm brows upraised!With faltering strength, he cowered down alone,And held sincere communion with the Lord,For one brief moment, in a sudden gushOf blessed tears. The minister of GodRose to invoke a blessing on his flock,And then began the service,—not in wordsTo raise the lowly, and to heal the sick,But an alien tongue, with phrases formed,And meaningless observances. The knight,Unmoved, yet thirsting for the simple wordThat might have moved him, held his bitter thoughts,But when in his own speech a new priest spake,Looked up with hope revived, and heard the text:"Go, preach the Gospel unto all the world.He that believes and is baptized, is saved.He that believeth not, is damned in hell!"He sat with neck thrust forth and staring eyes;The crowded congregation disappeared;He felt alone in some black sea of hell,While a great light smote one exalted face,Vivid already with prophetic fire,Whose fatal mouth now thundered forth his doom.He longed in that void circle to cry out,With one clear shriek, but sense and voice seemed bound,And his parched tongue clave useless to his mouth.As the last words resounded through the church,And once again the pastor blessed his flock,Who, serious and subdued, passed slowly downThe arrow aisle, none noted, near the wall,A fallen man with face upon his knees,A heap of huddled garments and loose hair,Unconscious 'mid the rustling, murmurous stir,'Midst light and rural smell of grass and flowers,Let in athwart the doorway. One lone priest,Darkening the altar lights, moved noiselessly,Now with the yellow glow upon his face,Now a black shadow gliding farther on,Amidst the smooth, slim pillars of hewn ash.But from the vacant aisles he heard at onceA hollow sigh, heaved from a depth profound.Upholding his last light above his head,And peering eagerly amidst the stalls,He cried, "Be blest who cometh in God's name."Then the gaunt form of Tannhauser arose."Father, I am a sinner, and I seekForgiveness and help, by whatso meansI can regain the joy of peace with God.""The Lord hath mercy on the penitent.'Although thy sins be scarlet,' He hath said,'Will I not make them white as wool?' Confess,And I will shrive you." Thus the good priest movedTowards the remorseful knight and pressed his hand.But shrinking down, he drew his fingers backFrom the kind palm, and kissed the friar's feet."Thy pure hand is anointed, and can heal.The cool, calm pressure brings back sanity,And what serene, past joys! yet touch me not,My contact is pollution,—hear, O hear,While I disburden my charged soul." He lay,Casting about for words and strength to speak."O father, is there help for such a one,"In tones of deep abasement he began,"Who hath rebelled against the laws of God,With pride no less presumptuous than hisWho lost thereby his rank in heaven?" "My son,There is atonement for all sins,—or slightOr difficult, proportioned to the crime.Though this may be the staining of thy handsWith blood of kinsmen or of fellow-men.""My hands are white,—my crime hath found no name,This side of hell; yet though my heart-strings snapTo live it over, let me make the attempt.I was a knight and bard, with such a giftOf revelation that no hour of lifeLacked beauty and adornment, in myselfThe seat and centre of all happiness.What inspiration could my lofty MuseDraw from those common and familiar themes,Painted upon the windows and the wallsOf every church,—the mother and her child,The miracle and mystery of the birth,The death, the resurrection? Fool and blind!That saw not symbols of eternal truthIn that grand tragedy and victory,Significant and infinite as life.What tortures did my skeptic soul endure,At war against herself and all mankind!The restless nights of feverish sleeplessness,With balancing of reasons nicely weighed;The dawn that brought no hope nor energy,The blasphemous arraignment of the Lord,Taxing His glorious divinityWith all the grief and folly of the world.Then came relapses into abject fear,And hollow prayer and praise from craven heart.Before a sculptured Venus I would kneel,Crown her with flowers, worship her, and cry,'O large and noble type of our ideal,At least my heart and prayer return to thee,Amidst a faithless world of proselytes.Madonna Mary, with her virgin lips,And eyes that look perpetual reproach,Insults and is a blasphemy on youth.Is she to claim the worship of a manHot with the first rich flush of ripened life?'Realities, like phantoms, glided by,Unnoted 'midst the torment and delightsOf my conflicting spirit, and I doffedthe modest Christian weeds of charityAnd fit humility, and steeled myselfIn pagan panoply of stoicismAnd self-sufficing pride. Yet constantlyI gained men's charmed attention and applause,With the wild strains I smote from out my lyre,To me the native language of my soul,To them attractive and miraculous,As all things whose solution and whose sourceRemain a mystery. Then came suddenlyThe summons to attend the gatheringOf minstrels at the Landgrave Hermann's court.Resolved to publish there my pagan creedIn harmonies so high and beautifulThat all the world would share my zeal and faith,I journeyed towards the haunted Horsel cliffs.O God! how may I tell you how SHE came,The temptress of a hundred centuries,Yet fresh as April? She bewitched my sense,Poisoned my judgment with sweet flatteries,And for I may not guess how many yearsHeld me a captive in degrading bonds.There is no sin of lust so lewd and foul,Which I learned not in that alluring hell,Until this morn, I snapped the ignoble tie,By calling on the Mother of our Lord.O for the power to stand again erect,And look men in the eyes! What penitence,What scourging of the flesh, what rigid fasts,What terrible privations may sufficeTo cleanse me in the sight of God and man?"Ill-omened silence followed his appeal.Patient and motionless he lay awhile,Then sprang unto his feet with sudden force,Confronting in his breathless vehemence,With palpitating heart, the timid priest."Answer me, as you hope for a response,One day, at the great judgment seat yourself.""I cannot answer," said the timid priest,"I have not understood." "Just God! is thisThe curse Thou layest upon me? I outstripThe sympathy and brotherhood of men,So far removed is my experienceFrom their clean innocence. Inspire me,Prompt me to words that bring me near to them!Father," in gentler accents he resumed,"Thank Heaven at your every orisonThat sin like mine you cannot apprehend.More than the truth perchance I have confessed,But I have sinned, and darkly,—this is true;And I have suffered, and am suffering now.Is there no help in your great Christian creedOf liberal charity, for such a one?""My son," the priest replied, "your speech distraughtHath quite bewildered me. I fain would hopeThat Christ's large charity can reach your sin,But I know naught. I cannot but believeThat the enchantress who first tempted youMust be the Evil one,—your early doubtWas the possession of your soul by him.Travel across the mountain to the town,The first cathedral town upon the roadThat leads to Rome,—a sage and reverend priest,The Bishop Adrian, bides there. Say you have comeFrom his leal servant, Friar Lodovick;He hath vast lore and great authority,And may absolve you freely of your sin."
Over the rolling hills, through summer fields,By noisy villages and lonely lanes,Through glowing days, when all the landscape stretchedShimmering in the heat, a pilgrim faredTowards the cathedral town. Sir TannhauserHad donned the mournful sackcloth, girt his loinsWith a coarse rope that ate into his flesh,Muffled a cowl about his shaven head,Hung a great leaden cross around his neck;And bearing in his hands a knotty staff,With swollen, sandaled feet he held his course.He snatched scant rest at twilight or at dawn,When his forced travel was least difficult.But most he journeyed when the sky, o'ercast,Uprolled its threatening clouds of dusky blue,And angry thunder grumbled through the hills,And earth grew dark at noonday, till the flashOf the thin lightning through the wide sky leapt.And tumbling showers scoured along the plain.Then folk who saw the pilgrim penitent,Drenched, weird, and hastening as as to some strange doom,Swore that the wandering Jew had crossed their land,And the Lord Christ had sent the deadly boltHarmless upon his cursed, immortal head.At length the hill-side city's spires and roofs,With all its western windows smitten redBy a rich sunset, and with massive towersOf its cathedral overtopping all,greeted his sight. Some weary paces more,And as the twilight deepened in the streets,He stood within the minster. How serene,In sculptured calm of centuries, it seemed!How cool and spacious all the dim-lit aisles,Still hazy with fumes of frankincense!The vesper had been said, yet here and thereA wrinkled beldam, or mourner veiled,Or burly burgher on the cold floor knelt,And still the organist, with wandering hands,Drew from the keys mysterious melodies,And filled the church with flying waifs of song,That with ethereal beauty moved the soulTo a more tender prayer and gentler faithThan choral anthems and the solemn mass.A thousand memories, sweet to bitterness,Rushed on the knight and filled his eyes with tears;Youth's blamelessness and faith forever lost,The love of his neglected lyre, his art,Revived by these aerial harmonies.He was unworthy now to touch the strings,Too base to stir men's soul to ecstasyAnd high resolves, as in the days agone;And yet, with all his spirit's earnestness,He yearned to feel the lyre between his hands,To utter all the trouble of his lifeUnto the Muse who understands and helps.Outworn with travel, soothed to drowsinessBy dying music and sweet-scented air,His limbs relaxed, and sleep possessed his frame.Auroral light the eastern oriels touched,When with delicious sense of rest he woke,Amidst the cast and silent empty aisles."God's peace hath fallen upon me in this place;This is my Bethel; here I feel againA holy calm, if not of innocence,Yet purest after that, the calm sereneOf expiation and forgiveness."He spake, and passed with staff and wallet forthThrough the tall portal to the open square,And turning, paused to look upon the pile.The northern front against the crystal skyLoomed dark and heavy, full of sombre shade,With each projecting buttress, carven cross,Gable and mullion, tipped with laughing lightBy the slant sunbeams of the risen morn.The noisy swallows wheeled above their nests,Builded in hidden nooks about the porch.No human life was stirring in the square,Save now and then a rumbling market-team,Fresh from the fields and farms without the town.He knelt upon the broad cathedral steps,And kissed the moistened stone, while overheadThe circling swallows sang, and all aroundThe mighty city lay asleep and still.
To stranger's ears must yet again be madeThe terrible confession; yet againA deathly chill, with something worse than fear,Seized the knight's heart, who knew his every wordWidened the gulf between his kind and him.The Bishop sat with pomp of mitred head,In pride of proven virtue, hearkening to allWith cold, official apathy, nor madeA sign of pity nor encouragement.The friar understood the pilgrim's grief,The language of his eyes; his speech aloneWas alien to these kind, untutored ears.But this was truly to be misconstrued,To tear each palpitating word aliveFrom out the depths of his remorseful soul,And have it weighed with the precision coolAnd the nice logic of a reasoning mind.This spiritual Father judged his crimeAs the mad mischief of a reckless boy,That call for strict, immediate punishment.But Tannhauser, who felt himself a man,Though base, yet fallen through passions and rare giftsOf an exuberant nature rankly rich,And knew his weary head was growing grayWith a life's terrible experience,Found his old sense of proper worth revive;But modestly he ended: "Yet I felt,O holy Father, in the church, this morn,A strange security, a peace serene,As though e'en yet the Lord regarded meWith merciful compassion; yea, as thoughEven so vile a worm as I might workMine own salvation, through repentant prayers.""Presumptuous man, it is no easy taskTo expiate such sin; a space of prayerThat deprecates the anger of the Lord,A pilgrimage through pleasant summer lands,May not atone for years of impious lust;Thy heart hath lied to thee in offering hope.""Is there no hope on earth?" the pilgrim sighed."None through thy penance," said the saintly man."Yet there may be through mediation, help.There is a man who by a blameless lifeHath won the right to intercede with God.No sins of his own flesh hath he to purge,—The Cardinal Filippo,—he abides,Within the Holy City. Seek him out;This is my only counsel,—through thyselfCan be no help and no forgiveness."
How different from the buoyant joy of mornWas this discouraged sense of lassitude,The Bishop's words were ringing in his ears,Measured and pitiless, and blent with these,The memory of the goddess' last wild cry,—"ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE."Was it the truth, despite his penitence,And the dedication of his thought to God,That still some portion of himself was hers,Some lust survived, some criminal regret,For her corrupted love? He searched his heart:All was remorse, religious and sincere,And yet her dreadful curse still haunted him;For all men shunned him, and denied him help,Knowing at once in looking on his face,Ploughed with deep lines and prematurely old,That he had struggled with some deadly fiend,And that he was no longer kin to them.Just past the outskirts of the town, he stopped,To strengthen will and courage to proceed.The storm had broken o'er the sultry streets,But now the lessening clouds were flying east,And though the gentle shower still wet his face,The west was cloudless while the sun went down,And the bright seven-colored arch stood forth,Against the opposite dull gray. There wasA beauty in the mingled storm and peace,Beyond clear sunshine, as the vast, green fieldsBasked in soft light, though glistening yet with rain.The roar of all the town was now a buzzLess than the insects' drowsy murmuringThat whirred their gauzy wings around his head.The breeze that follows on the sunsettingWas blowing whiffs of bruised and dripping grassInto the heated city. But he stood,Disconsolate with thoughts of fate and sin,Still wrestling with his soul to win it backFrom her who claimed it to eternity.Then on the delicate air there came to himThe intonation of the minster bells,Chiming the vespers, musical and faint.He knew not what of dear and beautifulThere was in those familiar peals, that spakeOf his first boyhood and his innocence,Leading him back, with gracious influence,To pleasant thoughts and tender memories,And last, recalling the fair hour of hopeHe passed that morning in the church. Again,The glad assurance of God's boundless loveFilled all his being, and he rose serene,And journeyed forward with a calm content.
Southward he wended, and the landscape tookA warmer tone, the sky a richer light.The gardens of the graceful, festooned with hops,With their slight tendrils binding pole to pole,Gave place to orchards and the trellised grape,The hedges were enwreathed with trailing vines,With clustering, shapely bunches, 'midst the growthOf tangled greenery. The elm and ashLess frequent grew than cactus, cypresses,And golden-fruited or large-blossomed trees.The far hills took the hue of the dove's breast,Veiled in gray mist of olive groves. No moreHe passed dark, moated strongholds of grim knights,But terraces with marble-paven steps,With fountains leaping in the sunny air,And hanging gardens full of sumptuous bloom.Then cloisters guarded by their dead gray walls,Where now and then a golden globe of fruitOr full-flushed flower peered out upon the road,Nodding against the stone, and where he heardSometimes the voices of the chanting monks,Sometimes the laugh of children at their play,Amidst the quaint, old gardens. But these sightsWere in the suburbs of the wealthy towns.For many a day through wildernesses rank,Or marshy, feverous meadow-lands he fared,The fierce sun smiting his close-muffled head;Or 'midst the Alpine gorges faced the storm,That drave adown the gullies melted snowAnd clattering boulders from the mountain-tops.At times, between the mountains and the seaFair prospects opened, with the boundless stretchOf restless, tideless water by his side,And their long wash upon the yellow sand.Beneath this generous sky the country-folkCould lead a freer life,—the fat, green fieldsOffered rich pasturage, athwart the airRang tinkling cow-bells and the shepherds' pipes.The knight met many a strolling troubadour,Bearing his cithern, flute, or dulcimer;And oft beneath some castle's balcony,At night, he heard their mellow voices rise,Blent with stringed instruments or tambourines,Chanting some lay as natural as a bird's.Then Nature stole with healthy influenceInto his thoughts; his love of beauty woke,His Muse inspired dreams as in the past.But after this came crueler remorse,And he would tighten round his loins the rope,And lie for hours beside some wayside cross,And feel himself unworthy to enjoyThe splendid gift and privilege of life.Then forth he hurried, spurred by his desireTo reach the City of the Seven Hills,And gain his absolution. Some leagues moreWould bring him to the vast Campagna land,When by a roadside well he paused to rest.'T was noon, and reapers in the field hard byLay neath the trees upon the sun-scorched grass.But from their midst one came towards the well,Not trudging like a man forespent with toil,But frisking like a child at holiday,With light steps. The pilgrim watched him come,And found him scarcely older than a child,A large-mouthed earthen pitcher in his hand,And a guitar upon his shoulder slung.A wide straw hat threw all his face in shade,But doffing this, to catch whatever breezeMight stir among the branches, he disclosedA charming head of rippled, auburn hair,A frank, fair face, as lovely as a girls,With great, soft eyes, as mild and grave as kine's.Above his head he slipped the instrument,And laid it with his hat upon the turf,Lowered his pitcher down the well-head cool,And drew it dripping upward, ere he sawThe watchful pilgrim, craving (as he thought)The precious draught. "Your pardon, holy sir,Drink first," he cried, "before I take the jarUnto my father in the reaping-field."Touched by the cordial kindness of the lad,The pilgrim answered,—"Thanks, my thirst is quenchedFrom mine own palm." The stranger deftly poisedThe brimming pitcher on his head, and turnedBack to the reaping-folk, while TannhauserLooked after him across the sunny fields,Clasping each hand about his waist to bearThe balanced pitcher; then, down glancing, foundThe lad's guitar near by, and fell at onceTo striking its tuned string with wandering hands,And pensive eyes filled full of tender dreams."Yea, holy sir, it is a worthless thing,And yet I love it, for I make it speak."The boy again stood by him and dispelledHis train of fantasies half sweet, half sad."That was not in my thought," the knight replied."Its worth is more than rubies; whoso hathThe art to make this speak is raised therebyAbove all loneliness or grief or fear."More to himself than to the lad he spake,Who, understanding not, stood doubtfullyAt a loss for answer; but the knight went on:"How came it in your hands, and who hath tunedyour voice to follow it." "I am unskilled,Good father, but my mother smote its stringsTo music rare." Diverted from one theme,Pleased with the winsome candor of the boy,The knight encouraged him to confidence;Then his own gift of minstrelsy revealed,And told bright tales of his first wanderings,When in lords' castles and kings' palacesMen still made place for him, for in his landThe gift was rare and valued at its worth,And brought great victory and sounding fame.Thus, in retracing all his pleasant youth,His suffering passed as though it had not been.Wide-eyed and open-mouthed the boy gave ear,His fair face flushing with the sudden thoughtsThat went and came,—then, as the pilgrim ceased,Drew breath and spake: "And where now is your lyre?"The knight with both hands hid his changed, white face,Crying aloud, "Lost! lost! forever lost!"Then, gathering strength, he bared his face againUnto the frightened, wondering boy, and roseWith hasty fear. "Ah, child, you bring me backUnwitting to remembrance of my grief,For which I donned eternal garb of woe;And yet I owe you thanks for one sweet hourOf healthy human intercourse and peace.'T is not for me to tarry by the way.Farewell!" The impetuous, remorseful boy,Seeing sharp pain on that kind countenance,Fell at his feet and cried, "Forgive my words,Witless but innocent, and leave me notWithout a blessing." Moved unutterably,The pilgrim kissed with trembling lips his head,And muttered, "At this moment would to GodThat I were worthy!" Then waved wasted handsOver the youth in act of blessing him,But faltered, "Cleanse me through his innocence,O heavenly Father!" and with quickening stepsHastened away upon the road to Rome.The noon was past, the reapers drew broad swathsWith scythes sun-smitten 'midst the ripened crop.Thin shadows of the afternoon slept softOn the green meadows as the knight passed forth.
He trudged amidst the sea of poisonous flowersOn the Campagna's undulating plain,With Rome, the many-steepled, many-towered,Before him regnant on her throne of hills.A thick blue cloud of haze o'erhung the town,But the fast-sinking sun struck fiery lightFrom shining crosses, roofs, and flashing domes.Across his path an arching bridge of stoneWas raised above a shrunken yellow stream,Hurrying with the light on every waveTowards the great town and outward to the sea.Upon the bridge's crest he paused, and leanedAgainst the barrier, throwing back his cowl,And gazed upon the dull, unlovely floodThat was the Tiber. Quaggy banks lay bare,Muddy and miry, glittering in the sun,And myriad insects hovered o'er the reeds,Whose lithe, moist tips by listless airs were stirred.When the low sun had dropped behind the hills,He found himself within the streets of Rome,Walking as in a sleep, where naught seemed real.The chattering hubbub of the market-placeWas over now; but voices smote his earOf garrulous citizens who jostled past.Loud cries, gay laughter, snatches of sweet song,The tinkling fountains set in gardens coolAbout the pillared palaces, and blentWith trickling of the conduits in the squares,The noisy teams within the narrow streets,—All these the stranger heard and did not hear,While ringing bells pealed out above the town,And calm gray twilight skies stretched over it.Wide open stood the doors of every church,And through the porches pressed a streaming throng.Vague wonderment perplexed him, at the sightOf broken columns raised to JupiterBeside the cross, immense cathedrals rearedUpon a dead faith's ruins; all the whirlAnd eager bustle of the living townFilling the storied streets, whose very stonesWere solemn monuments, and spake of death.Although he wrestled with himself, the thoughtOf that poor, past religion smote his heartWith a huge pity and deep sympathy,Beyond the fervor which the Church inspired.Where was the noble race who ruled the world,Moulded of purest elements, and stuffedWith sternest virtues, every man a king,Wearing the purple native in his heart?These lounging beggars, stealthy monks and priests,And womanish patricians filled their place.Thus Tannhauser, still half an infidel,Pagan through mind and Christian through the heart,Fared thoughtfully with wandering, aimless steps,Till in the dying glimmer of the dayHe raised his eyes and found himself aloneAmid the ruined arches, broken shafts,And huge arena of the Coliseum.He did not see it as it was, dim-litBy something less than day and more than night,With wan reflections of the rising moonRather divined than seen on ivied walls,And crumbled battlements, and topless columns—But by the light of all the ancient days,Ringed with keen eager faces, living eyes,Fixed on the circus with a savage joy,Where brandished swords flashed white, and human bloodStreamed o'er the thirsty dust, and Death was king.He started, shuddering, and drew breath to seeThe foul pit choked with weeds and tumbled stones,The cross raised midmost, and the peaceful moonShining o'er all; and fell upon his knees,Restored to faith in one wise, loving God.Day followed day, and still he bode in Rome,Waiting his audience with the Cardinal,And from the gates, on pretext frivolous,Passed daily forth,—his Eminency slept,—Again, his Eminency was fatiguedBy tedious sessions of the Papal court,And thus the patient pilgrim was referredUnto a later hour. At last the pageBore him a missive with Filippo's seal,That in his name commended TannhauserUnto the Pope. The worn, discouraged knightRead the brief scroll, then sadly forth again,Along the bosky alleys of the park,Passed to the glare and noise of summer streets."Good God!" he muttered, "Thou hast ears for all,And sendest help and comfort; yet these men,Thy saintly ministers, must deck themselvesWith arrogance, and from their large delightIn all the beauty of the beauteous earth,And peace of indolent, untempted souls,Deny the hungry outcast a bare word."Yet even as he nourished bitter thoughts,He felt a depth of clear serenity,Unruffled in his heart beneath it all.No outward object now had farther powerTo wound him there, for the brooding o'er those deepsOf vast contrition was boundless hope.
Yet not to leave a human chance untried,He sought the absolution of the Pope.In a great hall with airy galleries,Thronged with high dignitaries of the Church,He took his seat amidst the humblest friars.Through open windows came sweet garden smells,Bright morning light, and twittered song of birds.Around the hall flashed gold and sunlit gems,And splendid wealth of color,—white-stoled priests,And scarlet cardinals, and bishops cladIn violet vestments,—while beneath the shadeOf the high gallery huddled dusky shapes,With faded, travel-tattered, sombre smocks,And shaven heads, and girdles of coarse hemp;Some, pilgrims penitent like Tannhauser;Some, devotees to kiss the sacred feet.The brassy blare of trumpets smote the air,Shrill pipes and horns with swelling clamor came,And through the doorway's wide-stretched tapestriesPassed the Pope's trumpeters and mace-bearers,His vergers bearing slender silver wands,Then mitred bishops, red-clad cardinals,The stalwart Papal Guard with halberds raised,And then, with white head crowned with gold ingemmed,The vicar of the lowly Galilean,Holding his pastoral rod of smooth-hewn wood,With censer swung before and peacock fansWaved constantly by pages, either side.Attended thus, they bore him to his throne,And priests and laymen fell upon their knees.Then, after pause of brief and silent prayer,The pilgrims singly through the hall defiled,To kiss the borders of the papal skirts,Smiting their foreheads on the paven stone;Some silent, abject, some accusing themOf venial sins in accents of remorse,Craving his grace, and passing pardoned forth.Sir Tannhauser came last, no need for himTo cry "Peccavi," and crook suppliant knees.His gray head rather crushed than bowed, his faceLivid and wasted, his deep thoughtful eyes,His tall gaunt form in those unseemly weeds,Spake more than eloquence. His hollow voiceBrake silence, saying, "I am Tannhauser.For seven years I lived apart from men,Within the Venusberg." A horror seizedThe assembled folk; some turbulently rose;Some clamored, "From the presence cast him forth!"But the knight never ceased his steady gazeUpon the Pope. At last,—"I have not spokenTo be condemned," he said, "by such as these.Thou, spiritual Father, answer me.Look thou upon me with the eyes of Christ.Can I through expiation gain my shrift,And work mine own redemption?" "Insolent man!"Thundered the outraged Pope, "is this the toneWherewith thou dost parade thy loathsome sin?Down on thy knees, and wallow on the earth!Nay, rather go! there is no ray of hope,No gleam, through cycles of eternity,For the redemption of a soul like thine.Yea, sooner shall my pastoral rod branch forthIn leaf and blossom, and green shoots of spring,Than Christ will pardon thee." And as he spoke,He struck the rod upon the floor with forceThat gave it entrance 'twixt two loosened tiles,So that it stood, fast-rooted and alone.The knight saw naught, he only heard his judgeRing forth his curses, and the court cry out"Anathema!" and loud, and blent therewith,Derisive laughter in the very hall,And a wild voice that thrilled through flesh and heart:"ONCE BEING MINE, THOU ART FOREVER MINE!"Half-mad he clasped both hands upon his brow,Amidst the storm of voices, till they died,And all was silence, save the reckless songOf a young bird upon a twig without.Then a defiant, ghastly face he raised,And shrieked, "'T is false! I am no longer thine!"And through the windows open to the park,Rushed forth, beyond the sight and sound of men.
By church nor palace paused he, till he passedAll squares and streets, and crossed the bridge of stone,And stood alone amidst the broad expanseOf the Campagna, twinkling in the heat.He knelt upon a knoll of turf, and snappedThe cord that held the cross about his neck,And far from him the leaden burden flung."O God! I thank Thee, that my faith in TheeSubsists at last, through all discouragements.Between us must no type nor symbol stand,No mediator, were he more divineThan the incarnate Christ. All forms, all priests,I part aside, and hold communion freeBeneath the empty sky of noon, with naughtBetween my nothingness and thy high heavens—Spirit with spirit. O, have mercy, God!Cleanse me from lust and bitterness and pride,Have mercy in accordance with my faith."Long time he lay upon the scorching grass,With his face buried in the tangled weeds.Ah! who can tell the struggles of his soulAgainst its demons in that sacred hour,The solitude, the anguish, the remorse?When shadows long and thin lay on the ground,Shivering with fever, helpless he arose,But with a face divine, ineffable,Such as we dream the face of Israel,When the Lord's wrestling angel, at gray dawn,Blessed him, and disappeared.Upon the marsh,All night, he wandered, striving to emergeFrom the wild, pathless plain,—now limitlessAnd colorless beneath the risen moon;Outstretching like a sea, with landmarks none,Save broken aqueducts and parapets,And ruined columns glinting 'neath the moon.His dress was dank and clinging with the dew;A thousand insects fluttered o'er his head,With buzz and drone; unseen cicadas chirpedAmong the long, rank grass, and far and nearThe fire-flies flickered through the summer air.Vague thoughts and gleams prophetic filled his brain."Ah, fool!" he mused, "to look for help from men.Had they the will to aid, they lack the power.In mine own flesh and soul the sin had birth,Through mine own anguish it must be atoned.Our saviours are not saints and ministers,But tear-strung women, children soft of heart,Or fellow-sufferers, who, by some chance word,Some glance of comfort, save us from despair.These I have found, thank heaven! to strengthen trustIn mine own kind, when all the world grew dark.Make me not proud in spirit, O my God!Yea, in thy sight I am one mass of sin,One black and foul corruption, yet I knowMy frailty is exceeded by thy love.Neither is this the slender straw of hope,Whereto I, drowning, cling, but firm belief,That fills my inmost soul with vast content.As surely as the hollow faiths of oldShriveled to dust before one ray of Truth,So will these modern temples pass away,Piled upon rotten doctrines, baseless forms,And man will look in his own breast for help,Yea, search for comfort his own inward reins,Revere himself, and find the God within.Patience and patience!" Through the sleepless nightHe held such thoughts; at times before his eyesFlashed glimpses of the Church that was to be,Sublimely simple in the light sereneOf future ages; then the vision changedTo the Pope's hall, thronged with high priests, who hurledTheir curses on him. Staggering, he awokeUnto the truth, and found himself alone,Beneath the awful stars. When dawn's first chillCrept though the shivering grass and heavy leaves,Giddy and overcome, he fell and sleptUpon the dripping weeds, nor dreamed nor stirred,Until the wide plain basked in noon's broad light.He dragged his weary frame some paces more,Unto a solitary herdsman's hut,Which, in the vagueness of the moonlit night,Was touched with lines of beauty, till it grewFair as the ruined works of ancient art,Now squat and hideous with its wattled roof,Decaying timbers, and loose door wide oped,Half-fallen from the hinge. A drowsy man,Bearded and burnt, in shepherd habit lay,Stretched on the floor, slow-munching, half asleep,His frugal fare; for thus, at blaze of noon,The shepherds sought a shelter from the sun,Leaving their vigilant dogs beside their flock.The knight craved drink and bread, and with respectFor pilgrim weeds, the Roman herdsman stirredHis lazy length, and shared with him his meal.Refreshed and calm, Sir Tannhauser passed forth,Yearning with morbid fancy once againTo see the kind face of the minstrel boyHe met beside the well. At set of sunHe reached the place; the reaping-folk were gone,The day's toil over, yet he took his seat.A milking-girl with laden buckets full,Came slowly from the pasture, paused and drank.From a near cottage ran a ragged boy,And filled his wooden pail, and to his homeReturned across the fields. A herdsman came,And drank and gave his dog to drink, and passed,Greeting the holy man who sat there still,Awaiting. But his feeble pulse beat highWhen he descried at last a youthful form,Crossing the field, a pitcher on his head,Advancing towards the well. Yea, this was he,The same grave eyes, and open, girlish face.But he saw not, amidst the landscape brown,The knight's brown figure, who, to win his ear,Asked the lad's name. "My name is Salvator,To serve you, sir," he carelessly replied,With eyes and hands intent upon his jar,Brimming and bubbling. Then he cast one glanceUpon his questioner, and left the well,Crying with keen and sudden sympathy,"Good Father, pardon me, I knew you not.Ah! you have travelled overmuch: your feetAre grimed with mud and wet, your face is changed,Your hands are dry with fever." But the knight:"Nay, as I look on thee, I think the LordWills not that I should suffer any more.""Then you have suffered much," sighed Salvator,With wondering pity. "You must come with me;My father knows of you, I told him all.A knight and minstrel who cast by his lyre,His health and fame, to give himself to God,—Yours is a life indeed to be desired!If you will lie with us this night, our homeWill verily be blessed." By kindness crushed,Wandering in sense and words, the broken knightResisted naught, and let himself be ledTo the boy's home. The outcast and accursedWas welcomed now by kindly human hands;Once more his blighted spirit was revivedBy contact with refreshing innocence.There, when the morning broke upon the world,The humble hosts no longer knew their guest.His fleshly weeds of sin forever doffed,Tannhauser lay and smiled, for in the nightThe angel came who brings eternal peace.