As a philosopher Sordino triedTo make himself believe that all was well,Howe’er something opposed his wise decree,—He sought to sup, but found each dish to beDevoid of savor both in taste and smell,His spleen the head’s philosophy defied.He sought his couch and courted gentle sleep,And stoically scorned his love-affair,But Somnus was so far away, unheeding,And thoughts in solitude were slowly feedingUpon his heart, like lions in their lair,Instead of rest, his misery grew deep.The clock struck ten, he rose and left his room;The bar was lively, and he chose its folly;There was the sailor, garrulous and drunk,In company with one, a quondam monk,From Henry’s reign, when monks, unduly jolly,Were driven from pretended cloister-gloom.But if the ruby brightness of his noseWas then acquired, or in his homeless state,Is not for me to say, but it surpassedEven his who years had sailed before the mast,And with the aid of gin and stormy fateHad made it blossom like an Irish rose.These two from spheres so far apart had metAcross a stoop of ale, which like the riverOf classic eld can quench all mundane sorrow,Make men forgetful of the past and morrow,Upon whose bosom dreams all sunlit quiver,Until it empties in a sea of jet.Upon the sailor’s quick discoveryOf Count Sordino’s presence, he approachedHim with a courtsy very risibleAnd whispered that he had something to tell,Which on their precious secret did encroach,And asked him, come aside from company.Sordino followed with a sense of fear,That it was money which the rogue was after,And cared but little for his muddled talk;Soon on the dark, deserted garden-walkThey stood, where faint the hum and laughterOf drinking men, fell on the listening ear.In broken sentences, and low, the croonConfided to Sordino something strange:He had that very eve beheld the man,Who brought the bells from France to old Ireland,First on the street, then on a garden-bench,Embracing a young lady, ’neath the moon.Moreover, he had chanced to meet a fellow,Who used to wear the cowl, in whilom days,But had doffed cloth and everything religious,And though his story was somewhat ambiguous,He claims to know the chimes, and doth much praiseTheir wondrous tones as very clear and mellow.This tale engrossed Sordino’s mind intensely;They entered, sought the monk, who half asleepSat by a table all alone; the twoAroused him with a drink of better brew,Now with the sailor he the best did reapFrom the Count’s interest and liberality.Sordino made agreement with these menTo go with him to Ireland, even that week,Which they did promise for a goodly hire,—For both declared, they knew the very spire,Around whose golden cross his chimes did seekTheir flight up to the list’ning choirs of heaven.
As a philosopher Sordino triedTo make himself believe that all was well,Howe’er something opposed his wise decree,—He sought to sup, but found each dish to beDevoid of savor both in taste and smell,His spleen the head’s philosophy defied.He sought his couch and courted gentle sleep,And stoically scorned his love-affair,But Somnus was so far away, unheeding,And thoughts in solitude were slowly feedingUpon his heart, like lions in their lair,Instead of rest, his misery grew deep.The clock struck ten, he rose and left his room;The bar was lively, and he chose its folly;There was the sailor, garrulous and drunk,In company with one, a quondam monk,From Henry’s reign, when monks, unduly jolly,Were driven from pretended cloister-gloom.But if the ruby brightness of his noseWas then acquired, or in his homeless state,Is not for me to say, but it surpassedEven his who years had sailed before the mast,And with the aid of gin and stormy fateHad made it blossom like an Irish rose.These two from spheres so far apart had metAcross a stoop of ale, which like the riverOf classic eld can quench all mundane sorrow,Make men forgetful of the past and morrow,Upon whose bosom dreams all sunlit quiver,Until it empties in a sea of jet.Upon the sailor’s quick discoveryOf Count Sordino’s presence, he approachedHim with a courtsy very risibleAnd whispered that he had something to tell,Which on their precious secret did encroach,And asked him, come aside from company.Sordino followed with a sense of fear,That it was money which the rogue was after,And cared but little for his muddled talk;Soon on the dark, deserted garden-walkThey stood, where faint the hum and laughterOf drinking men, fell on the listening ear.In broken sentences, and low, the croonConfided to Sordino something strange:He had that very eve beheld the man,Who brought the bells from France to old Ireland,First on the street, then on a garden-bench,Embracing a young lady, ’neath the moon.Moreover, he had chanced to meet a fellow,Who used to wear the cowl, in whilom days,But had doffed cloth and everything religious,And though his story was somewhat ambiguous,He claims to know the chimes, and doth much praiseTheir wondrous tones as very clear and mellow.This tale engrossed Sordino’s mind intensely;They entered, sought the monk, who half asleepSat by a table all alone; the twoAroused him with a drink of better brew,Now with the sailor he the best did reapFrom the Count’s interest and liberality.Sordino made agreement with these menTo go with him to Ireland, even that week,Which they did promise for a goodly hire,—For both declared, they knew the very spire,Around whose golden cross his chimes did seekTheir flight up to the list’ning choirs of heaven.
As a philosopher Sordino triedTo make himself believe that all was well,Howe’er something opposed his wise decree,—He sought to sup, but found each dish to beDevoid of savor both in taste and smell,His spleen the head’s philosophy defied.
He sought his couch and courted gentle sleep,And stoically scorned his love-affair,But Somnus was so far away, unheeding,And thoughts in solitude were slowly feedingUpon his heart, like lions in their lair,Instead of rest, his misery grew deep.
The clock struck ten, he rose and left his room;The bar was lively, and he chose its folly;There was the sailor, garrulous and drunk,In company with one, a quondam monk,From Henry’s reign, when monks, unduly jolly,Were driven from pretended cloister-gloom.
But if the ruby brightness of his noseWas then acquired, or in his homeless state,Is not for me to say, but it surpassedEven his who years had sailed before the mast,And with the aid of gin and stormy fateHad made it blossom like an Irish rose.
These two from spheres so far apart had metAcross a stoop of ale, which like the riverOf classic eld can quench all mundane sorrow,Make men forgetful of the past and morrow,Upon whose bosom dreams all sunlit quiver,Until it empties in a sea of jet.
Upon the sailor’s quick discoveryOf Count Sordino’s presence, he approachedHim with a courtsy very risibleAnd whispered that he had something to tell,Which on their precious secret did encroach,And asked him, come aside from company.
Sordino followed with a sense of fear,That it was money which the rogue was after,And cared but little for his muddled talk;Soon on the dark, deserted garden-walkThey stood, where faint the hum and laughterOf drinking men, fell on the listening ear.
In broken sentences, and low, the croonConfided to Sordino something strange:He had that very eve beheld the man,Who brought the bells from France to old Ireland,First on the street, then on a garden-bench,Embracing a young lady, ’neath the moon.
Moreover, he had chanced to meet a fellow,Who used to wear the cowl, in whilom days,But had doffed cloth and everything religious,And though his story was somewhat ambiguous,He claims to know the chimes, and doth much praiseTheir wondrous tones as very clear and mellow.
This tale engrossed Sordino’s mind intensely;They entered, sought the monk, who half asleepSat by a table all alone; the twoAroused him with a drink of better brew,Now with the sailor he the best did reapFrom the Count’s interest and liberality.
Sordino made agreement with these menTo go with him to Ireland, even that week,Which they did promise for a goodly hire,—For both declared, they knew the very spire,Around whose golden cross his chimes did seekTheir flight up to the list’ning choirs of heaven.
O, god of gold, whose universal swayIs not the underworld, on the Plutonic shore,And hideous, like that of Spencer’s dream,But on our terra’s face, bright with the gleamOf mid-day sun, thy power has ever moreCommanded human nature to obey!Thou sittest not in gloomy woods and caves,A loathsome creature with the hoarded pelf,But in the palace and the mansion bright,In marble temples large and fair, bedight,A princely being, though controlled by Self,To whom most men submit themselves as slaves.The beautiful, the learnéd, and the strongAre vying with the baser mass to serveThee ardently, that favor they may find,They offer beauty, skill of hand and mind,And ceaseless toil, until the vital nerveOf life is gone, the source of joy and song.Some barter soul and body for the gold,And bear but semblance to the freeborn man;The food is rich, the wine is sparkling red,What matter then, if soul and heart are dead;—But in the darkness stand the masses wan,And homeless children shiver in the cold.Thou rulest kings and statesmen in their places,Thou makest war, and causest it to cease,Thou art the world’s supremest autocrat,And e’en our land is bending on the matBefore thy power’s terrible increase,Which even the shallow lawgiver amazes.It is not lavish gifts alone that bind,But ev’n the droppings of the shining ore,Thus here, the tips, Sordino gave the salt,Enthralled him to a virtue or a fault,—So in a whisper, recklessly he swore:“I’ll take that coward and knock out his wind!”Just then Sordino’s foe was enteringThe bar-room with a smile of exultation;—The salt arose and held him by the arm,The soldier looked at him with small alarm,Or rather with a frown of irritation,And sought the drunken sailor from him fling,—Who brawled aloud: “Thou Judas ’Scarioth,Who would again for thirty shillings sellOur holy Mary’s son, look on my faceAs one who helped thee in thy wicked ways,To make a fortune on a stolen bell,Inscribed with glory to Lord Zebaoth!”“I knew not better then, but now I do,—Those bells, we freighted, were but stolen good,And thou the thief, enriched by robbing God,—Thou thinkest, all are resting ’neath the sod,Who knew their tale, but by the holy Rood,There is one yet alive who’ll make thee rue!”At which the soldier grasped his sword to fight;The sailor laughed: “Strik’st thou the weaponless?”He fell upon the floor, stabbed in the breast.Then rose Sordino and to all confest:“I am the man behind this sorry mess,But will take pains to settle it aright.”He drew his sword and challenging his rival,They bore upon each other with a fury,Which in Sordino reached a double strength,He felt that fate had brought him this, at length,Not even the Archbishop of Canterbury,Could stop him now from being the survival.The parries of the combatants revealedTheir mastery in fencing, and it seemedA doubtful issue who should win the fray,When suddenly besides the sailor layThe soldier with a gash, from which there streamedA flood of life, the young man’s doom was sealed.That night the sailor and the soldier perished;Sordino and his page set out on flight;But Stella and her father mourned the lossOf one whom they thought gold, but was mere dross,—A fortune-soldier with no sense of right,Who nought but selfish aims had ever cherished.A double life may win the noblest heartBy hiding foulness neath pretended good,Until the judgment-day reveals the truth,And to the innocent the crushing ruth,When he, that trusted was, is understood,And all dissemblings from his life depart.
O, god of gold, whose universal swayIs not the underworld, on the Plutonic shore,And hideous, like that of Spencer’s dream,But on our terra’s face, bright with the gleamOf mid-day sun, thy power has ever moreCommanded human nature to obey!Thou sittest not in gloomy woods and caves,A loathsome creature with the hoarded pelf,But in the palace and the mansion bright,In marble temples large and fair, bedight,A princely being, though controlled by Self,To whom most men submit themselves as slaves.The beautiful, the learnéd, and the strongAre vying with the baser mass to serveThee ardently, that favor they may find,They offer beauty, skill of hand and mind,And ceaseless toil, until the vital nerveOf life is gone, the source of joy and song.Some barter soul and body for the gold,And bear but semblance to the freeborn man;The food is rich, the wine is sparkling red,What matter then, if soul and heart are dead;—But in the darkness stand the masses wan,And homeless children shiver in the cold.Thou rulest kings and statesmen in their places,Thou makest war, and causest it to cease,Thou art the world’s supremest autocrat,And e’en our land is bending on the matBefore thy power’s terrible increase,Which even the shallow lawgiver amazes.It is not lavish gifts alone that bind,But ev’n the droppings of the shining ore,Thus here, the tips, Sordino gave the salt,Enthralled him to a virtue or a fault,—So in a whisper, recklessly he swore:“I’ll take that coward and knock out his wind!”Just then Sordino’s foe was enteringThe bar-room with a smile of exultation;—The salt arose and held him by the arm,The soldier looked at him with small alarm,Or rather with a frown of irritation,And sought the drunken sailor from him fling,—Who brawled aloud: “Thou Judas ’Scarioth,Who would again for thirty shillings sellOur holy Mary’s son, look on my faceAs one who helped thee in thy wicked ways,To make a fortune on a stolen bell,Inscribed with glory to Lord Zebaoth!”“I knew not better then, but now I do,—Those bells, we freighted, were but stolen good,And thou the thief, enriched by robbing God,—Thou thinkest, all are resting ’neath the sod,Who knew their tale, but by the holy Rood,There is one yet alive who’ll make thee rue!”At which the soldier grasped his sword to fight;The sailor laughed: “Strik’st thou the weaponless?”He fell upon the floor, stabbed in the breast.Then rose Sordino and to all confest:“I am the man behind this sorry mess,But will take pains to settle it aright.”He drew his sword and challenging his rival,They bore upon each other with a fury,Which in Sordino reached a double strength,He felt that fate had brought him this, at length,Not even the Archbishop of Canterbury,Could stop him now from being the survival.The parries of the combatants revealedTheir mastery in fencing, and it seemedA doubtful issue who should win the fray,When suddenly besides the sailor layThe soldier with a gash, from which there streamedA flood of life, the young man’s doom was sealed.That night the sailor and the soldier perished;Sordino and his page set out on flight;But Stella and her father mourned the lossOf one whom they thought gold, but was mere dross,—A fortune-soldier with no sense of right,Who nought but selfish aims had ever cherished.A double life may win the noblest heartBy hiding foulness neath pretended good,Until the judgment-day reveals the truth,And to the innocent the crushing ruth,When he, that trusted was, is understood,And all dissemblings from his life depart.
O, god of gold, whose universal swayIs not the underworld, on the Plutonic shore,And hideous, like that of Spencer’s dream,But on our terra’s face, bright with the gleamOf mid-day sun, thy power has ever moreCommanded human nature to obey!
Thou sittest not in gloomy woods and caves,A loathsome creature with the hoarded pelf,But in the palace and the mansion bright,In marble temples large and fair, bedight,A princely being, though controlled by Self,To whom most men submit themselves as slaves.
The beautiful, the learnéd, and the strongAre vying with the baser mass to serveThee ardently, that favor they may find,They offer beauty, skill of hand and mind,And ceaseless toil, until the vital nerveOf life is gone, the source of joy and song.
Some barter soul and body for the gold,And bear but semblance to the freeborn man;The food is rich, the wine is sparkling red,What matter then, if soul and heart are dead;—But in the darkness stand the masses wan,And homeless children shiver in the cold.
Thou rulest kings and statesmen in their places,Thou makest war, and causest it to cease,Thou art the world’s supremest autocrat,And e’en our land is bending on the matBefore thy power’s terrible increase,Which even the shallow lawgiver amazes.
It is not lavish gifts alone that bind,But ev’n the droppings of the shining ore,Thus here, the tips, Sordino gave the salt,Enthralled him to a virtue or a fault,—So in a whisper, recklessly he swore:“I’ll take that coward and knock out his wind!”
Just then Sordino’s foe was enteringThe bar-room with a smile of exultation;—The salt arose and held him by the arm,The soldier looked at him with small alarm,Or rather with a frown of irritation,And sought the drunken sailor from him fling,—
Who brawled aloud: “Thou Judas ’Scarioth,Who would again for thirty shillings sellOur holy Mary’s son, look on my faceAs one who helped thee in thy wicked ways,To make a fortune on a stolen bell,Inscribed with glory to Lord Zebaoth!”
“I knew not better then, but now I do,—Those bells, we freighted, were but stolen good,And thou the thief, enriched by robbing God,—Thou thinkest, all are resting ’neath the sod,Who knew their tale, but by the holy Rood,There is one yet alive who’ll make thee rue!”
At which the soldier grasped his sword to fight;The sailor laughed: “Strik’st thou the weaponless?”He fell upon the floor, stabbed in the breast.Then rose Sordino and to all confest:“I am the man behind this sorry mess,But will take pains to settle it aright.”
He drew his sword and challenging his rival,They bore upon each other with a fury,Which in Sordino reached a double strength,He felt that fate had brought him this, at length,Not even the Archbishop of Canterbury,Could stop him now from being the survival.
The parries of the combatants revealedTheir mastery in fencing, and it seemedA doubtful issue who should win the fray,When suddenly besides the sailor layThe soldier with a gash, from which there streamedA flood of life, the young man’s doom was sealed.
That night the sailor and the soldier perished;Sordino and his page set out on flight;But Stella and her father mourned the lossOf one whom they thought gold, but was mere dross,—A fortune-soldier with no sense of right,Who nought but selfish aims had ever cherished.
A double life may win the noblest heartBy hiding foulness neath pretended good,Until the judgment-day reveals the truth,And to the innocent the crushing ruth,When he, that trusted was, is understood,And all dissemblings from his life depart.
The foot is fleet when conscience spurs it on,And fear of death is calling in one’s trail,Then lonely country roads and midnight darkSeem better than the torch-illumined park,Where smiling faces even a stranger hailOn gala-nights in merry old London.And to possess a trusted friend, in flight,Who knows the road and place of safe retreat,Is more than thousand when all things are well,His whispered counsel more than when they yellTheir loud approval in the hour of heat,While wine is flowing, on a banquet night.The boy did follow him, and strange to tell,The monk had offered him his services,And led the way, for much he traversed hadThe country near and far. Sordino, gladTo grasp this straw of help in his distress,Did follow him through lane and murky dell.Amid its trees a hermit’s hut did stand,Upon whose door the monk three times did knock;“Who’s there?” a voice did clearly ask within,The monk replied: “Thy well-known brother Quinn;”The door did ope, a man in cloister-frockAppeared with light and crucifix in hand.“Grant to us all a shelter over night,True sons of Holy Church, though fugitives,Not without recompense shall be thy care,For though we nothing in our hands do bear,This gentleman no favors e’er receives,Without a thanks which lingers with delight.”“I do not covet payment for a favor,”The hermit answered, “hospitalityIs but a duty upon all enjoined,And deeds of kindness into lucre coinedCannot in heaven as holy treasures beStored up, since of man’s selfishness they savor.”“But I would know who comes to hermit’s cot,With fear upon his face and hard of breath.”To which the monk replied: “A man of rankFrom that most classic land, where Dante drankFrom the clear fountain which o’ercometh death,Gives hope to hearts whose is the exile’s lot.”“As ’neath the temple in JerusalemA fountain issued forth all sweet and clear,So doth from mother-church a well-spring flow,And all who drink thereof must feel the glowOf life within which makes them see and hearThe joy that trembles round Christ’s diadem.”“His quest is to regain some precious bells,That blessed his land, to whom his soul is wed,—And on his painful journey he has foundThe man who stole them, brought him to the ground;From dire avengers he has justly fled,Protect him thou, lest him some villain quell.”The hermit promised him his hut’s protection,And of a secret cave beneath a tree,Meanwhile the monk and page should preparationMake for departure to that stalwart nation,Whose melodies, one with its history,Have from its sacred lore the true inflection.
The foot is fleet when conscience spurs it on,And fear of death is calling in one’s trail,Then lonely country roads and midnight darkSeem better than the torch-illumined park,Where smiling faces even a stranger hailOn gala-nights in merry old London.And to possess a trusted friend, in flight,Who knows the road and place of safe retreat,Is more than thousand when all things are well,His whispered counsel more than when they yellTheir loud approval in the hour of heat,While wine is flowing, on a banquet night.The boy did follow him, and strange to tell,The monk had offered him his services,And led the way, for much he traversed hadThe country near and far. Sordino, gladTo grasp this straw of help in his distress,Did follow him through lane and murky dell.Amid its trees a hermit’s hut did stand,Upon whose door the monk three times did knock;“Who’s there?” a voice did clearly ask within,The monk replied: “Thy well-known brother Quinn;”The door did ope, a man in cloister-frockAppeared with light and crucifix in hand.“Grant to us all a shelter over night,True sons of Holy Church, though fugitives,Not without recompense shall be thy care,For though we nothing in our hands do bear,This gentleman no favors e’er receives,Without a thanks which lingers with delight.”“I do not covet payment for a favor,”The hermit answered, “hospitalityIs but a duty upon all enjoined,And deeds of kindness into lucre coinedCannot in heaven as holy treasures beStored up, since of man’s selfishness they savor.”“But I would know who comes to hermit’s cot,With fear upon his face and hard of breath.”To which the monk replied: “A man of rankFrom that most classic land, where Dante drankFrom the clear fountain which o’ercometh death,Gives hope to hearts whose is the exile’s lot.”“As ’neath the temple in JerusalemA fountain issued forth all sweet and clear,So doth from mother-church a well-spring flow,And all who drink thereof must feel the glowOf life within which makes them see and hearThe joy that trembles round Christ’s diadem.”“His quest is to regain some precious bells,That blessed his land, to whom his soul is wed,—And on his painful journey he has foundThe man who stole them, brought him to the ground;From dire avengers he has justly fled,Protect him thou, lest him some villain quell.”The hermit promised him his hut’s protection,And of a secret cave beneath a tree,Meanwhile the monk and page should preparationMake for departure to that stalwart nation,Whose melodies, one with its history,Have from its sacred lore the true inflection.
The foot is fleet when conscience spurs it on,And fear of death is calling in one’s trail,Then lonely country roads and midnight darkSeem better than the torch-illumined park,Where smiling faces even a stranger hailOn gala-nights in merry old London.
And to possess a trusted friend, in flight,Who knows the road and place of safe retreat,Is more than thousand when all things are well,His whispered counsel more than when they yellTheir loud approval in the hour of heat,While wine is flowing, on a banquet night.
The boy did follow him, and strange to tell,The monk had offered him his services,And led the way, for much he traversed hadThe country near and far. Sordino, gladTo grasp this straw of help in his distress,Did follow him through lane and murky dell.
Amid its trees a hermit’s hut did stand,Upon whose door the monk three times did knock;“Who’s there?” a voice did clearly ask within,The monk replied: “Thy well-known brother Quinn;”The door did ope, a man in cloister-frockAppeared with light and crucifix in hand.
“Grant to us all a shelter over night,True sons of Holy Church, though fugitives,Not without recompense shall be thy care,For though we nothing in our hands do bear,This gentleman no favors e’er receives,Without a thanks which lingers with delight.”
“I do not covet payment for a favor,”The hermit answered, “hospitalityIs but a duty upon all enjoined,And deeds of kindness into lucre coinedCannot in heaven as holy treasures beStored up, since of man’s selfishness they savor.”
“But I would know who comes to hermit’s cot,With fear upon his face and hard of breath.”To which the monk replied: “A man of rankFrom that most classic land, where Dante drankFrom the clear fountain which o’ercometh death,Gives hope to hearts whose is the exile’s lot.”
“As ’neath the temple in JerusalemA fountain issued forth all sweet and clear,So doth from mother-church a well-spring flow,And all who drink thereof must feel the glowOf life within which makes them see and hearThe joy that trembles round Christ’s diadem.”
“His quest is to regain some precious bells,That blessed his land, to whom his soul is wed,—And on his painful journey he has foundThe man who stole them, brought him to the ground;From dire avengers he has justly fled,Protect him thou, lest him some villain quell.”
The hermit promised him his hut’s protection,And of a secret cave beneath a tree,Meanwhile the monk and page should preparationMake for departure to that stalwart nation,Whose melodies, one with its history,Have from its sacred lore the true inflection.
With first grey dawn of day the hermit roseTo pray, as was his custom every morn,And with him knelt Sordino, in contrition,For through the hours of night the awful visionOf wanton murder to his mind was borne,And robbed him of all rest and soul-repose.And to the holy man he did confess,And begged his absolution, which was granted,But still the deed so weighed upon his heart,That when his two companions did depart,He fain would have his own death-dirges chanted,To make an end of harrowing distress.Such is the soul, that once attuned to peace,Must pass through Becca’s vale of dark remorse,In whom the joy of heav’n and grief of hellAre seeking one another to expel;Well then if the afflicted take recourseTo Him who calms the storm and gives surcease.The ruing of our sins, the soul’s repentance,The coming to oneself, and meeting God,Is, after all, the only way to rest,All else is but a vain and foolish quest,A hiding from the terror of His rod,A coward’s quailing for a righteous sentence.For it is then, and only then, the FatherCan meet His child, such as it left His home,Bestow the kiss of pardon and the loveOf ring and raiment from His treasure trove,And bid him to the Palace with Him come,There with the tranquil spirits ever gather.Sordino now, like Israel of old,Passed through the inner struggle with the Lord,Until the morning of his soul appeared,And with the light of victory him cheered,The brook of bitter weeping he did ford,And found beyond the comfort of God’s fold.
With first grey dawn of day the hermit roseTo pray, as was his custom every morn,And with him knelt Sordino, in contrition,For through the hours of night the awful visionOf wanton murder to his mind was borne,And robbed him of all rest and soul-repose.And to the holy man he did confess,And begged his absolution, which was granted,But still the deed so weighed upon his heart,That when his two companions did depart,He fain would have his own death-dirges chanted,To make an end of harrowing distress.Such is the soul, that once attuned to peace,Must pass through Becca’s vale of dark remorse,In whom the joy of heav’n and grief of hellAre seeking one another to expel;Well then if the afflicted take recourseTo Him who calms the storm and gives surcease.The ruing of our sins, the soul’s repentance,The coming to oneself, and meeting God,Is, after all, the only way to rest,All else is but a vain and foolish quest,A hiding from the terror of His rod,A coward’s quailing for a righteous sentence.For it is then, and only then, the FatherCan meet His child, such as it left His home,Bestow the kiss of pardon and the loveOf ring and raiment from His treasure trove,And bid him to the Palace with Him come,There with the tranquil spirits ever gather.Sordino now, like Israel of old,Passed through the inner struggle with the Lord,Until the morning of his soul appeared,And with the light of victory him cheered,The brook of bitter weeping he did ford,And found beyond the comfort of God’s fold.
With first grey dawn of day the hermit roseTo pray, as was his custom every morn,And with him knelt Sordino, in contrition,For through the hours of night the awful visionOf wanton murder to his mind was borne,And robbed him of all rest and soul-repose.
And to the holy man he did confess,And begged his absolution, which was granted,But still the deed so weighed upon his heart,That when his two companions did depart,He fain would have his own death-dirges chanted,To make an end of harrowing distress.
Such is the soul, that once attuned to peace,Must pass through Becca’s vale of dark remorse,In whom the joy of heav’n and grief of hellAre seeking one another to expel;Well then if the afflicted take recourseTo Him who calms the storm and gives surcease.
The ruing of our sins, the soul’s repentance,The coming to oneself, and meeting God,Is, after all, the only way to rest,All else is but a vain and foolish quest,A hiding from the terror of His rod,A coward’s quailing for a righteous sentence.
For it is then, and only then, the FatherCan meet His child, such as it left His home,Bestow the kiss of pardon and the loveOf ring and raiment from His treasure trove,And bid him to the Palace with Him come,There with the tranquil spirits ever gather.
Sordino now, like Israel of old,Passed through the inner struggle with the Lord,Until the morning of his soul appeared,And with the light of victory him cheered,The brook of bitter weeping he did ford,And found beyond the comfort of God’s fold.
Deem it not strange that men of deeper thought,Retired to solitudes of woods and mountains,Where, by a life of pray’r and contemplation,They strove to find the soul’s complete salvation,And drink of heaven’s unpolluted fountains,And comprehend what God for man hath wrought.The solitude, in which the hermit dwelt,Was deep and undisturbed by human strife,No sound was heard but nature’s matchless tones,Its song, the cry, the sigh, the wandering moans,Which lift the poet’s vision to a life,That has no language, but alone is felt.Such quiet is a balm for wretched minds,A cooling water to the soul athirst;Sordino drank it like the cup of grace,In which you see the Saviour’s crownèd face,God spoke to him, not as to Cain accurst,But as a father, in the whispering winds.
Deem it not strange that men of deeper thought,Retired to solitudes of woods and mountains,Where, by a life of pray’r and contemplation,They strove to find the soul’s complete salvation,And drink of heaven’s unpolluted fountains,And comprehend what God for man hath wrought.The solitude, in which the hermit dwelt,Was deep and undisturbed by human strife,No sound was heard but nature’s matchless tones,Its song, the cry, the sigh, the wandering moans,Which lift the poet’s vision to a life,That has no language, but alone is felt.Such quiet is a balm for wretched minds,A cooling water to the soul athirst;Sordino drank it like the cup of grace,In which you see the Saviour’s crownèd face,God spoke to him, not as to Cain accurst,But as a father, in the whispering winds.
Deem it not strange that men of deeper thought,Retired to solitudes of woods and mountains,Where, by a life of pray’r and contemplation,They strove to find the soul’s complete salvation,And drink of heaven’s unpolluted fountains,And comprehend what God for man hath wrought.
The solitude, in which the hermit dwelt,Was deep and undisturbed by human strife,No sound was heard but nature’s matchless tones,Its song, the cry, the sigh, the wandering moans,Which lift the poet’s vision to a life,That has no language, but alone is felt.
Such quiet is a balm for wretched minds,A cooling water to the soul athirst;Sordino drank it like the cup of grace,In which you see the Saviour’s crownèd face,God spoke to him, not as to Cain accurst,But as a father, in the whispering winds.
Towards eve, that day, arrived his faithful aid,Who after stealthy search had found a shipFor Ireland bound, to sail that very night;And in the dark, before the moon rose bright,They might into its hiding safely slip,—The captain willing to be doubly paid.So, as the dusk grew on, the kindly dusk,—Which like a mother’s weeping love embracesHer guilty child, to pardon, shield and hide,Close to her breast, where nothing shall betideHim but the shelter from the cruel facesOf an avenging world,—he rose to buskWith his companions, yet, ere he took leave,He prayed the hermit’s blessing on his soul,Then put a golden pound within his palms,The hermit thanked him for his gen’rous alms,Then blessed him with the cross, yea, blessed them all,And bid them fare in hope, and not to grieve.Then they departed to a little boat,Hid in a wooded nook upon the river,And in the darkness for the ship set out,And Quinn, who plied the oars, did make the route,Without a blunder, to the “Guadalquiver,”—As proud a galleon as was afloat.
Towards eve, that day, arrived his faithful aid,Who after stealthy search had found a shipFor Ireland bound, to sail that very night;And in the dark, before the moon rose bright,They might into its hiding safely slip,—The captain willing to be doubly paid.So, as the dusk grew on, the kindly dusk,—Which like a mother’s weeping love embracesHer guilty child, to pardon, shield and hide,Close to her breast, where nothing shall betideHim but the shelter from the cruel facesOf an avenging world,—he rose to buskWith his companions, yet, ere he took leave,He prayed the hermit’s blessing on his soul,Then put a golden pound within his palms,The hermit thanked him for his gen’rous alms,Then blessed him with the cross, yea, blessed them all,And bid them fare in hope, and not to grieve.Then they departed to a little boat,Hid in a wooded nook upon the river,And in the darkness for the ship set out,And Quinn, who plied the oars, did make the route,Without a blunder, to the “Guadalquiver,”—As proud a galleon as was afloat.
Towards eve, that day, arrived his faithful aid,Who after stealthy search had found a shipFor Ireland bound, to sail that very night;And in the dark, before the moon rose bright,They might into its hiding safely slip,—The captain willing to be doubly paid.
So, as the dusk grew on, the kindly dusk,—Which like a mother’s weeping love embracesHer guilty child, to pardon, shield and hide,Close to her breast, where nothing shall betideHim but the shelter from the cruel facesOf an avenging world,—he rose to busk
With his companions, yet, ere he took leave,He prayed the hermit’s blessing on his soul,Then put a golden pound within his palms,The hermit thanked him for his gen’rous alms,Then blessed him with the cross, yea, blessed them all,And bid them fare in hope, and not to grieve.
Then they departed to a little boat,Hid in a wooded nook upon the river,And in the darkness for the ship set out,And Quinn, who plied the oars, did make the route,Without a blunder, to the “Guadalquiver,”—As proud a galleon as was afloat.
When man has lost the moorings of his home,And on the sea of life is tossed about,Bereft of childhood’s anchorage of heart,Nor wife, nor child have in his life a part,Then cares he little for the farewell shout,And sometimes little whither he may roam.Not so with children, when the evening-star,In the cerulean, like mother-eye,Sends forth its heavenly gleam of love and peace,—The longing for the home doth then increase,And from the soul goes up a bitter cryTo be with those so dear, but so afar.Sordino’s page stood at the railing, asThe ship bore down the Thames, that star-lit night,And none did mark the tears that trickled fast,And none did see the glances which he castTowards the home which was his soul’s delight,While farther, farther from it he did pass.Sordino missed him, sitting in the hold,And asked his new-found friend to bring him down,And as he came and stood in the dim glowOf candle-light, at once with pain he sawThe redness of his eyes, so large and brown,And felt his hands, that they were strangely cold.And he did put his arm around his neck,And lowly spoke with tenderness and cheer,That he should see again the home he loved,And him with goodly promises endowedOf favors that would make each coming yearAs carefree as the sailors on the deck.
When man has lost the moorings of his home,And on the sea of life is tossed about,Bereft of childhood’s anchorage of heart,Nor wife, nor child have in his life a part,Then cares he little for the farewell shout,And sometimes little whither he may roam.Not so with children, when the evening-star,In the cerulean, like mother-eye,Sends forth its heavenly gleam of love and peace,—The longing for the home doth then increase,And from the soul goes up a bitter cryTo be with those so dear, but so afar.Sordino’s page stood at the railing, asThe ship bore down the Thames, that star-lit night,And none did mark the tears that trickled fast,And none did see the glances which he castTowards the home which was his soul’s delight,While farther, farther from it he did pass.Sordino missed him, sitting in the hold,And asked his new-found friend to bring him down,And as he came and stood in the dim glowOf candle-light, at once with pain he sawThe redness of his eyes, so large and brown,And felt his hands, that they were strangely cold.And he did put his arm around his neck,And lowly spoke with tenderness and cheer,That he should see again the home he loved,And him with goodly promises endowedOf favors that would make each coming yearAs carefree as the sailors on the deck.
When man has lost the moorings of his home,And on the sea of life is tossed about,Bereft of childhood’s anchorage of heart,Nor wife, nor child have in his life a part,Then cares he little for the farewell shout,And sometimes little whither he may roam.
Not so with children, when the evening-star,In the cerulean, like mother-eye,Sends forth its heavenly gleam of love and peace,—The longing for the home doth then increase,And from the soul goes up a bitter cryTo be with those so dear, but so afar.
Sordino’s page stood at the railing, asThe ship bore down the Thames, that star-lit night,And none did mark the tears that trickled fast,And none did see the glances which he castTowards the home which was his soul’s delight,While farther, farther from it he did pass.
Sordino missed him, sitting in the hold,And asked his new-found friend to bring him down,And as he came and stood in the dim glowOf candle-light, at once with pain he sawThe redness of his eyes, so large and brown,And felt his hands, that they were strangely cold.
And he did put his arm around his neck,And lowly spoke with tenderness and cheer,That he should see again the home he loved,And him with goodly promises endowedOf favors that would make each coming yearAs carefree as the sailors on the deck.
The sea attracts the soul that deeply yearnsFor freedom and adventure, like the ironWhich is by magnet drawn; and so it be,That ’mongst the cruder natures one may seeThe dreamer’s eye of Masefield or a Byron,Or wit and humor of a Robert Burns.And sailors love to sing, or tell a tale,Songs set to music by the wave and wind,And yarns with tang and laughter of the deep,And on a day when all things seem asleepIn golden calm, you best may findThe squatting crew itself of these avail.On such a day a sailor-lad did singA little lay which to Sordino’s pageHad spirit-flight, as never he had known,It was to him the lifting of a dawnFrom night’s and sorrow’s dark and fearful cage,The skylark’s rise and soar on raptured wing.“Adieu, my native land, adieu,I leave thee for a while,As fade thy cliffs amid the blue,And trembling of thy smile!I sing my parting song with tears,But not as cravens do,Thy love casts out the coward’s fearsAnd leaves a courage true.”“For England’s sons did ever findTheir strength in love of thee,Thy name, a lode-star to their mind,Guides o’er the stormy sea;They breathe it as the lover doesHer’s whom he most adores;And where the English standard goesHer name lights up the shores.”“There is a land far in the west,Bright with the sun-set’s glow,Arising from the billow’s crest,With mountain-peaks of snow,With palms and roses in the vales,And fountain-gleams among,And rich as any fairy-tale,In gold and fruit and song.”“And men have sailed the weary leaguesTo find this wondrous realm,Have spurned the danger and fatigues,And waves that overwhelm,To reach that land, but none returnedTo England from his quest,Unless his heart within him burnedWith thanks for what is best.”“For English isles is ParadiseTo every native child,Since things more precious he doth priceThan riches of the wild,The gold of love is more than all,And faith more rare than gems,He heeds not the alluring callAnd glittering diadems.”“He loves his land, he loves his God,Be riches what they may,The bleeding Christ upon the roodProtects him on his way,And meets he luck, as it may hapTo any sailor boy,He brings it to his mother’s lap,Her thanks, his greatest joy.”“Adieu, adieu, my native land,Adieu, my father’s home,Adieu my lass, O, may thy handGreet me when back I come!For sailor’s heart, when outward bound,Is filled with sorrow’s pain,But hope lies glimm’ring on the sound—Of coming home again.”
The sea attracts the soul that deeply yearnsFor freedom and adventure, like the ironWhich is by magnet drawn; and so it be,That ’mongst the cruder natures one may seeThe dreamer’s eye of Masefield or a Byron,Or wit and humor of a Robert Burns.And sailors love to sing, or tell a tale,Songs set to music by the wave and wind,And yarns with tang and laughter of the deep,And on a day when all things seem asleepIn golden calm, you best may findThe squatting crew itself of these avail.On such a day a sailor-lad did singA little lay which to Sordino’s pageHad spirit-flight, as never he had known,It was to him the lifting of a dawnFrom night’s and sorrow’s dark and fearful cage,The skylark’s rise and soar on raptured wing.“Adieu, my native land, adieu,I leave thee for a while,As fade thy cliffs amid the blue,And trembling of thy smile!I sing my parting song with tears,But not as cravens do,Thy love casts out the coward’s fearsAnd leaves a courage true.”“For England’s sons did ever findTheir strength in love of thee,Thy name, a lode-star to their mind,Guides o’er the stormy sea;They breathe it as the lover doesHer’s whom he most adores;And where the English standard goesHer name lights up the shores.”“There is a land far in the west,Bright with the sun-set’s glow,Arising from the billow’s crest,With mountain-peaks of snow,With palms and roses in the vales,And fountain-gleams among,And rich as any fairy-tale,In gold and fruit and song.”“And men have sailed the weary leaguesTo find this wondrous realm,Have spurned the danger and fatigues,And waves that overwhelm,To reach that land, but none returnedTo England from his quest,Unless his heart within him burnedWith thanks for what is best.”“For English isles is ParadiseTo every native child,Since things more precious he doth priceThan riches of the wild,The gold of love is more than all,And faith more rare than gems,He heeds not the alluring callAnd glittering diadems.”“He loves his land, he loves his God,Be riches what they may,The bleeding Christ upon the roodProtects him on his way,And meets he luck, as it may hapTo any sailor boy,He brings it to his mother’s lap,Her thanks, his greatest joy.”“Adieu, adieu, my native land,Adieu, my father’s home,Adieu my lass, O, may thy handGreet me when back I come!For sailor’s heart, when outward bound,Is filled with sorrow’s pain,But hope lies glimm’ring on the sound—Of coming home again.”
The sea attracts the soul that deeply yearnsFor freedom and adventure, like the ironWhich is by magnet drawn; and so it be,That ’mongst the cruder natures one may seeThe dreamer’s eye of Masefield or a Byron,Or wit and humor of a Robert Burns.
And sailors love to sing, or tell a tale,Songs set to music by the wave and wind,And yarns with tang and laughter of the deep,And on a day when all things seem asleepIn golden calm, you best may findThe squatting crew itself of these avail.
On such a day a sailor-lad did singA little lay which to Sordino’s pageHad spirit-flight, as never he had known,It was to him the lifting of a dawnFrom night’s and sorrow’s dark and fearful cage,The skylark’s rise and soar on raptured wing.
“Adieu, my native land, adieu,I leave thee for a while,As fade thy cliffs amid the blue,And trembling of thy smile!I sing my parting song with tears,But not as cravens do,Thy love casts out the coward’s fearsAnd leaves a courage true.”
“For England’s sons did ever findTheir strength in love of thee,Thy name, a lode-star to their mind,Guides o’er the stormy sea;They breathe it as the lover doesHer’s whom he most adores;And where the English standard goesHer name lights up the shores.”
“There is a land far in the west,Bright with the sun-set’s glow,Arising from the billow’s crest,With mountain-peaks of snow,With palms and roses in the vales,And fountain-gleams among,And rich as any fairy-tale,In gold and fruit and song.”
“And men have sailed the weary leaguesTo find this wondrous realm,Have spurned the danger and fatigues,And waves that overwhelm,To reach that land, but none returnedTo England from his quest,Unless his heart within him burnedWith thanks for what is best.”
“For English isles is ParadiseTo every native child,Since things more precious he doth priceThan riches of the wild,The gold of love is more than all,And faith more rare than gems,He heeds not the alluring callAnd glittering diadems.”
“He loves his land, he loves his God,Be riches what they may,The bleeding Christ upon the roodProtects him on his way,And meets he luck, as it may hapTo any sailor boy,He brings it to his mother’s lap,Her thanks, his greatest joy.”
“Adieu, adieu, my native land,Adieu, my father’s home,Adieu my lass, O, may thy handGreet me when back I come!For sailor’s heart, when outward bound,Is filled with sorrow’s pain,But hope lies glimm’ring on the sound—Of coming home again.”
The song was ended, and the crew’s applauseDid please the lad, who sang it to his lute.—The midshipman then essayed to relateA story with a mystery and fate,Of queen in English castle, and a bruteWhom she did love, her absent, heartless spouse.But while he spake, the captain did appear,(Unfinished hung the story on the lips),A Spaniard would not let such story pass,Since holy was his monarch, though an ass;Castilian, yea, to the finger-tips,Who for his God and king had equal fear.But all his crew was English and did pity,Though not from love, their queen of grief and rage,The most unfortunate on any throne,Who languished in her palace sad and lone,A zealot for her faith, who dared to wageA final fight for the Eternal City.Her love for Philip was a tragedy,Of whom the people spake and lent it hueOf fateful romance and a mystery;Yea, in the night strange phantoms men did seeOf things the superstitious counted true,But round it all clung native sympathy.The captain becked Sordino to his side,And spoke in accents, foreign to his men,On whom a silence fell deep as the sea’s,When, lo! there rose a curling little breeze,And then another stronger than its friend,Who called on Neptune’s horses for a ride.The captain bid the men to tend the sails,And quickly did each sailor now respond;The sheets were spread before the rising wind,And swiftly did they leave the coast behind,To reach the vast and sunlit mere beyond,Where ocean billows surge with piercing wails.
The song was ended, and the crew’s applauseDid please the lad, who sang it to his lute.—The midshipman then essayed to relateA story with a mystery and fate,Of queen in English castle, and a bruteWhom she did love, her absent, heartless spouse.But while he spake, the captain did appear,(Unfinished hung the story on the lips),A Spaniard would not let such story pass,Since holy was his monarch, though an ass;Castilian, yea, to the finger-tips,Who for his God and king had equal fear.But all his crew was English and did pity,Though not from love, their queen of grief and rage,The most unfortunate on any throne,Who languished in her palace sad and lone,A zealot for her faith, who dared to wageA final fight for the Eternal City.Her love for Philip was a tragedy,Of whom the people spake and lent it hueOf fateful romance and a mystery;Yea, in the night strange phantoms men did seeOf things the superstitious counted true,But round it all clung native sympathy.The captain becked Sordino to his side,And spoke in accents, foreign to his men,On whom a silence fell deep as the sea’s,When, lo! there rose a curling little breeze,And then another stronger than its friend,Who called on Neptune’s horses for a ride.The captain bid the men to tend the sails,And quickly did each sailor now respond;The sheets were spread before the rising wind,And swiftly did they leave the coast behind,To reach the vast and sunlit mere beyond,Where ocean billows surge with piercing wails.
The song was ended, and the crew’s applauseDid please the lad, who sang it to his lute.—The midshipman then essayed to relateA story with a mystery and fate,Of queen in English castle, and a bruteWhom she did love, her absent, heartless spouse.
But while he spake, the captain did appear,(Unfinished hung the story on the lips),A Spaniard would not let such story pass,Since holy was his monarch, though an ass;Castilian, yea, to the finger-tips,Who for his God and king had equal fear.
But all his crew was English and did pity,Though not from love, their queen of grief and rage,The most unfortunate on any throne,Who languished in her palace sad and lone,A zealot for her faith, who dared to wageA final fight for the Eternal City.
Her love for Philip was a tragedy,Of whom the people spake and lent it hueOf fateful romance and a mystery;Yea, in the night strange phantoms men did seeOf things the superstitious counted true,But round it all clung native sympathy.
The captain becked Sordino to his side,And spoke in accents, foreign to his men,On whom a silence fell deep as the sea’s,When, lo! there rose a curling little breeze,And then another stronger than its friend,Who called on Neptune’s horses for a ride.
The captain bid the men to tend the sails,And quickly did each sailor now respond;The sheets were spread before the rising wind,And swiftly did they leave the coast behind,To reach the vast and sunlit mere beyond,Where ocean billows surge with piercing wails.
XL
Sordino’s mind sank into gloomy night,As time grew heavy with a voyage long;He brooded on the past, and as he did,It seemed that shadows all its sunshine hid;And sickness, too, did make the man, once strong,Feel aged, worthless, and in awful plight.The story by the midshipman did lingerUpon his heart, increasing spectral-like,Awaking sympathy, for he did seeIn Mary’s life the gathered miseryOf many storms which ’gainst her soul did strike,And on a dark and hopeless deep did bring her.The greatest souls must bear the greatest pain,And sometimes sweetness turns to bitterness,And they who for the heights have been appointed,And by the gods or fates have been anointed,Must know the “Welt-smertz” of the vintage press,And tread it all alone, may be in vain.Thus did he meditate, and pleasure foundIn philosophic musings, day by day;But this was unknown to the hardy crew,Who melancholy with their laughter slew,They liked him not, and wished him out of way,—Well that he had the captain to him bound.Alas, to him the Chimes of life were lost!And that they ever rang seemed but a dream;The boist’rous elements of sea and airEnveloped him, but little did he care,Since death itself a friend to him did seem,—Of all things weary, sick and tempest-tost.But in such hours, whene’er the boy drew near,Whom he did love, a light shone in his eyes,And he did speak to him so tenderlyAs any parent, which did set him freeFrom painful broodings and the low’ring skies,And mid the deepest darkness brought him cheer.
Sordino’s mind sank into gloomy night,As time grew heavy with a voyage long;He brooded on the past, and as he did,It seemed that shadows all its sunshine hid;And sickness, too, did make the man, once strong,Feel aged, worthless, and in awful plight.The story by the midshipman did lingerUpon his heart, increasing spectral-like,Awaking sympathy, for he did seeIn Mary’s life the gathered miseryOf many storms which ’gainst her soul did strike,And on a dark and hopeless deep did bring her.The greatest souls must bear the greatest pain,And sometimes sweetness turns to bitterness,And they who for the heights have been appointed,And by the gods or fates have been anointed,Must know the “Welt-smertz” of the vintage press,And tread it all alone, may be in vain.Thus did he meditate, and pleasure foundIn philosophic musings, day by day;But this was unknown to the hardy crew,Who melancholy with their laughter slew,They liked him not, and wished him out of way,—Well that he had the captain to him bound.Alas, to him the Chimes of life were lost!And that they ever rang seemed but a dream;The boist’rous elements of sea and airEnveloped him, but little did he care,Since death itself a friend to him did seem,—Of all things weary, sick and tempest-tost.But in such hours, whene’er the boy drew near,Whom he did love, a light shone in his eyes,And he did speak to him so tenderlyAs any parent, which did set him freeFrom painful broodings and the low’ring skies,And mid the deepest darkness brought him cheer.
Sordino’s mind sank into gloomy night,As time grew heavy with a voyage long;He brooded on the past, and as he did,It seemed that shadows all its sunshine hid;And sickness, too, did make the man, once strong,Feel aged, worthless, and in awful plight.
The story by the midshipman did lingerUpon his heart, increasing spectral-like,Awaking sympathy, for he did seeIn Mary’s life the gathered miseryOf many storms which ’gainst her soul did strike,And on a dark and hopeless deep did bring her.
The greatest souls must bear the greatest pain,And sometimes sweetness turns to bitterness,And they who for the heights have been appointed,And by the gods or fates have been anointed,Must know the “Welt-smertz” of the vintage press,And tread it all alone, may be in vain.
Thus did he meditate, and pleasure foundIn philosophic musings, day by day;But this was unknown to the hardy crew,Who melancholy with their laughter slew,They liked him not, and wished him out of way,—Well that he had the captain to him bound.
Alas, to him the Chimes of life were lost!And that they ever rang seemed but a dream;The boist’rous elements of sea and airEnveloped him, but little did he care,Since death itself a friend to him did seem,—Of all things weary, sick and tempest-tost.
But in such hours, whene’er the boy drew near,Whom he did love, a light shone in his eyes,And he did speak to him so tenderlyAs any parent, which did set him freeFrom painful broodings and the low’ring skies,And mid the deepest darkness brought him cheer.
XLI
’Tis not our aim to tell of voyage long,Of storms and struggles on the wintry seas,Of harbourage and waiting in its course,Mid sheltered inlets upon Ireland’s shores,Though full of hardship, yet it would not please,And we must draw to close our lengthy song.But I have seen full many a ship depart,Receding into dimness gray and cold,Then slip away, lost in a mighty void;—And in my musings I have tugged and toyedWith memories of friends, or what they told,In words that strayed from an unguarded heart.For “wise words” are, sometimes, but foolish mumbling,And critic’s arrogance a dark conceit,While silence often has the truest depth;But when the child, which in thy bosom slept,Awakes to speak, a morning light doth greetThe restless trav’ler in his painful stumbling.For there are seas, and many a distant shore,And life is but a journey and a fight,Amid the mighty elements at war;—But by-and-by the pilgrimage is o’er,And when the peaceful harbor is in sight,Love’s word alone can ope the Palace-door.
’Tis not our aim to tell of voyage long,Of storms and struggles on the wintry seas,Of harbourage and waiting in its course,Mid sheltered inlets upon Ireland’s shores,Though full of hardship, yet it would not please,And we must draw to close our lengthy song.But I have seen full many a ship depart,Receding into dimness gray and cold,Then slip away, lost in a mighty void;—And in my musings I have tugged and toyedWith memories of friends, or what they told,In words that strayed from an unguarded heart.For “wise words” are, sometimes, but foolish mumbling,And critic’s arrogance a dark conceit,While silence often has the truest depth;But when the child, which in thy bosom slept,Awakes to speak, a morning light doth greetThe restless trav’ler in his painful stumbling.For there are seas, and many a distant shore,And life is but a journey and a fight,Amid the mighty elements at war;—But by-and-by the pilgrimage is o’er,And when the peaceful harbor is in sight,Love’s word alone can ope the Palace-door.
’Tis not our aim to tell of voyage long,Of storms and struggles on the wintry seas,Of harbourage and waiting in its course,Mid sheltered inlets upon Ireland’s shores,Though full of hardship, yet it would not please,And we must draw to close our lengthy song.
But I have seen full many a ship depart,Receding into dimness gray and cold,Then slip away, lost in a mighty void;—And in my musings I have tugged and toyedWith memories of friends, or what they told,In words that strayed from an unguarded heart.
For “wise words” are, sometimes, but foolish mumbling,And critic’s arrogance a dark conceit,While silence often has the truest depth;But when the child, which in thy bosom slept,Awakes to speak, a morning light doth greetThe restless trav’ler in his painful stumbling.
For there are seas, and many a distant shore,And life is but a journey and a fight,Amid the mighty elements at war;—But by-and-by the pilgrimage is o’er,And when the peaceful harbor is in sight,Love’s word alone can ope the Palace-door.
XLII
Upon an April morn the ship emergedFrom fitful seas into the placid poolOf Limerick. The day was clear and calm,And nature drew the breath of spring, its balmWas tempering the breezes, somewhat cool,From western realms, where ocean-billows surged.The woods and lanes stood draped in flimsy veil,Of hues most delicate; a purple shadeUniting with a tender touch of green,While here and there a golden glint was seenOf butter-cups upon the sloping glade,Or round the ponds, where fleecy clouds did sail.The skylark, lavishing its melodyUpon the freedom of the airy height,Did carol from the lofty blue so long,That not of earth but heaven seemed its song,An Ariel amid the dazzling light,Who thrilled the heart of man with ecstasy.Sordino harkened to this happy floodOf music, and he saw his servant boyGaze upward, like the holy men that day,When Christ ascended, for it did allayHis sorrows, and like theirs, restore his joy,Since skylark song is in the English blood.For have not Wordsworth and great Shelley provenThat none it stirs just like the British heart,To whom the lark gave immortality,When it inspired them with its poesy,And made their odes the acme of their art,Creations from Apollo’s texture woven?Sordino’s mind, however, at that hour,Lacked the repose which was on land and sea;And without mood no music doth arrest,—For by an eagerness he was possest,To know in truth if this the shore might be,Which held his treasure in Cathedral tower.The fire of his Italian blood awoke,Though he had aged so much upon this journey,He longed to leave the ship, and pass alongThe river, which was famous made in song,By the immortal Moore, and quaint Mahoney,Whose “Shannon Bells” remain a master-stroke.Sordino’s wish, to be the first to land,Was granted, and a boat placed to his service,Manned by two sailors and the monk and page,The former only did the oars engage;Sordino, in the stern, sat like a dervise,In musings deep, with head posed on his hand.No finer vista could itself unfoldThan that which burst upon his dreamy eye,As full in view the city did appear,A sight which drew from weary hearts a tear,—A city glimmering twixt sea and sky,With citadels and shrines, even then, so old.The sailors left off rowing and gave wayTo dreaming on the scene, until a spellPossest them all, and silent did they restUpon the river’s calm, translucent breast,When all at once the clear tone of a bellCame floating softly o’er the tranquil bay.And then a hymn of praise rose up to heavenFrom bells whose tongues had notes beyond compare,Sordino’s chimes—when on his ears they fell,He knew such happiness which none can tell,And angel hands to Paradise did bearThe soul who for true harmony had striven.As riveted he sat with empty stare,Even when the soul had from its temple fled;The boy did note it first and gave a cry,It was to him as if his sire did die;The monk did say a prayer o’er the dead,And bid the sailors to the city fare.They buried him within the hallowed paleOf the Cathedral, that the Chimes might soundTheir daily dirge above the master’s grave,Who for their music life and fortune gave,Who with their mystery his fate had bound,A lonely pilgrim through a gloomy vale.His sacrifice, howe’er, was not in vain,And not amiss his oft belittled quest,His poet’s mantle fell upon the lad,To whom his substance he bequeathéd had,—A singer he became, among the best,With cadence of the Chimes in lyric strain.And through his faith the faithless was restored,The quondam monk became a godly priest,Who humbly made the message of the bells,A life of peace where discord often dwells,To tell of this strange man he never ceast,Since he his name and memory adored.And on the Danube, in her father’s hall,Sat Stella, sorrowing her youth away,The people said, it was for her dead lover;But none did know, and none did e’er discoverThe secret of her heart, until one day,Her father heard her on Sordino call.
Upon an April morn the ship emergedFrom fitful seas into the placid poolOf Limerick. The day was clear and calm,And nature drew the breath of spring, its balmWas tempering the breezes, somewhat cool,From western realms, where ocean-billows surged.The woods and lanes stood draped in flimsy veil,Of hues most delicate; a purple shadeUniting with a tender touch of green,While here and there a golden glint was seenOf butter-cups upon the sloping glade,Or round the ponds, where fleecy clouds did sail.The skylark, lavishing its melodyUpon the freedom of the airy height,Did carol from the lofty blue so long,That not of earth but heaven seemed its song,An Ariel amid the dazzling light,Who thrilled the heart of man with ecstasy.Sordino harkened to this happy floodOf music, and he saw his servant boyGaze upward, like the holy men that day,When Christ ascended, for it did allayHis sorrows, and like theirs, restore his joy,Since skylark song is in the English blood.For have not Wordsworth and great Shelley provenThat none it stirs just like the British heart,To whom the lark gave immortality,When it inspired them with its poesy,And made their odes the acme of their art,Creations from Apollo’s texture woven?Sordino’s mind, however, at that hour,Lacked the repose which was on land and sea;And without mood no music doth arrest,—For by an eagerness he was possest,To know in truth if this the shore might be,Which held his treasure in Cathedral tower.The fire of his Italian blood awoke,Though he had aged so much upon this journey,He longed to leave the ship, and pass alongThe river, which was famous made in song,By the immortal Moore, and quaint Mahoney,Whose “Shannon Bells” remain a master-stroke.Sordino’s wish, to be the first to land,Was granted, and a boat placed to his service,Manned by two sailors and the monk and page,The former only did the oars engage;Sordino, in the stern, sat like a dervise,In musings deep, with head posed on his hand.No finer vista could itself unfoldThan that which burst upon his dreamy eye,As full in view the city did appear,A sight which drew from weary hearts a tear,—A city glimmering twixt sea and sky,With citadels and shrines, even then, so old.The sailors left off rowing and gave wayTo dreaming on the scene, until a spellPossest them all, and silent did they restUpon the river’s calm, translucent breast,When all at once the clear tone of a bellCame floating softly o’er the tranquil bay.And then a hymn of praise rose up to heavenFrom bells whose tongues had notes beyond compare,Sordino’s chimes—when on his ears they fell,He knew such happiness which none can tell,And angel hands to Paradise did bearThe soul who for true harmony had striven.As riveted he sat with empty stare,Even when the soul had from its temple fled;The boy did note it first and gave a cry,It was to him as if his sire did die;The monk did say a prayer o’er the dead,And bid the sailors to the city fare.They buried him within the hallowed paleOf the Cathedral, that the Chimes might soundTheir daily dirge above the master’s grave,Who for their music life and fortune gave,Who with their mystery his fate had bound,A lonely pilgrim through a gloomy vale.His sacrifice, howe’er, was not in vain,And not amiss his oft belittled quest,His poet’s mantle fell upon the lad,To whom his substance he bequeathéd had,—A singer he became, among the best,With cadence of the Chimes in lyric strain.And through his faith the faithless was restored,The quondam monk became a godly priest,Who humbly made the message of the bells,A life of peace where discord often dwells,To tell of this strange man he never ceast,Since he his name and memory adored.And on the Danube, in her father’s hall,Sat Stella, sorrowing her youth away,The people said, it was for her dead lover;But none did know, and none did e’er discoverThe secret of her heart, until one day,Her father heard her on Sordino call.
Upon an April morn the ship emergedFrom fitful seas into the placid poolOf Limerick. The day was clear and calm,And nature drew the breath of spring, its balmWas tempering the breezes, somewhat cool,From western realms, where ocean-billows surged.
The woods and lanes stood draped in flimsy veil,Of hues most delicate; a purple shadeUniting with a tender touch of green,While here and there a golden glint was seenOf butter-cups upon the sloping glade,Or round the ponds, where fleecy clouds did sail.
The skylark, lavishing its melodyUpon the freedom of the airy height,Did carol from the lofty blue so long,That not of earth but heaven seemed its song,An Ariel amid the dazzling light,Who thrilled the heart of man with ecstasy.
Sordino harkened to this happy floodOf music, and he saw his servant boyGaze upward, like the holy men that day,When Christ ascended, for it did allayHis sorrows, and like theirs, restore his joy,Since skylark song is in the English blood.
For have not Wordsworth and great Shelley provenThat none it stirs just like the British heart,To whom the lark gave immortality,When it inspired them with its poesy,And made their odes the acme of their art,Creations from Apollo’s texture woven?
Sordino’s mind, however, at that hour,Lacked the repose which was on land and sea;And without mood no music doth arrest,—For by an eagerness he was possest,To know in truth if this the shore might be,Which held his treasure in Cathedral tower.
The fire of his Italian blood awoke,Though he had aged so much upon this journey,He longed to leave the ship, and pass alongThe river, which was famous made in song,By the immortal Moore, and quaint Mahoney,Whose “Shannon Bells” remain a master-stroke.
Sordino’s wish, to be the first to land,Was granted, and a boat placed to his service,Manned by two sailors and the monk and page,The former only did the oars engage;Sordino, in the stern, sat like a dervise,In musings deep, with head posed on his hand.
No finer vista could itself unfoldThan that which burst upon his dreamy eye,As full in view the city did appear,A sight which drew from weary hearts a tear,—A city glimmering twixt sea and sky,With citadels and shrines, even then, so old.
The sailors left off rowing and gave wayTo dreaming on the scene, until a spellPossest them all, and silent did they restUpon the river’s calm, translucent breast,When all at once the clear tone of a bellCame floating softly o’er the tranquil bay.
And then a hymn of praise rose up to heavenFrom bells whose tongues had notes beyond compare,Sordino’s chimes—when on his ears they fell,He knew such happiness which none can tell,And angel hands to Paradise did bearThe soul who for true harmony had striven.
As riveted he sat with empty stare,Even when the soul had from its temple fled;The boy did note it first and gave a cry,It was to him as if his sire did die;The monk did say a prayer o’er the dead,And bid the sailors to the city fare.
They buried him within the hallowed paleOf the Cathedral, that the Chimes might soundTheir daily dirge above the master’s grave,Who for their music life and fortune gave,Who with their mystery his fate had bound,A lonely pilgrim through a gloomy vale.
His sacrifice, howe’er, was not in vain,And not amiss his oft belittled quest,His poet’s mantle fell upon the lad,To whom his substance he bequeathéd had,—A singer he became, among the best,With cadence of the Chimes in lyric strain.
And through his faith the faithless was restored,The quondam monk became a godly priest,Who humbly made the message of the bells,A life of peace where discord often dwells,To tell of this strange man he never ceast,Since he his name and memory adored.
And on the Danube, in her father’s hall,Sat Stella, sorrowing her youth away,The people said, it was for her dead lover;But none did know, and none did e’er discoverThe secret of her heart, until one day,Her father heard her on Sordino call.
Amid a vale in Norway stands a church,An ancient building, on historic ground;Its massive walls are white like newfall’n snow,Its lofty spire seems golden in the sun;Around it mighty elm-trees spread their boughsAnd throw their shadows on the moss-grown graves,And crumbling monuments of centuries,Their music blending with the jack-daw’s cryAnd with the deep, pure tones of bells, whose soundReecho ’mong the wooded hills and dells,Awaking fancies of the Saga-age:Of royal bards who sang before their king,That early morning of the fatal day,When Olaf ’neath his standard of the crossFought pagan armies from those sloping heights,And lost his cause! The altar has been builtAbove the stone, he leaned against, while flowedHis precious life-blood from the cruel wounds;The ground was consecrated by his blood,And when the people understood, and bowedBefore the Christ whose saint they slew, they builtA chapel on the place of martyrdom,Which in succeeding ages was enlarged,Until a worthy monument stood forth.The ravages of time have wrought their change,But it is ne’ertheless the trysting placeBetween the valley’s people and their God,A place which links the present to the past—And heaven’s gates to Norway’s history.* * * * * * * *On parchment, dim with age, a chronicle,Two cycles old, was found within a chest,Amid the iron-coffins in the vaultsBelow the church, which learnèd parsons read,And then restored it to its resting-place.For some strange reason then the narrow doorWas closed up with a solid masonry;But on the people’s lips, from age to age,The legend of that chronicle has passed,And I relate it here as told to me,When but a boy, by my great grandmother.—One day, the legend says, the parish priest,A young and pious man, came to the church,To read the mass for a departed friend,When he beheld a lonely woman standWithin the shadow of a mountain-ash,Which spread its crown of green and red besideThe gate which led into the sacred place.Her hair was black as night, her eyes a deepOf melancholy mystery and dreams;Her chiselled features had the striking charmOf youthful beauty and a mind mature;She was unlike the women of the vale,A stranger whom the priest had never met;And he espied her with a sense of fear.Her sable garb and downcast mien betrayedA state of grief, wherefore the kindly man,Led by a heartfelt sympathy, did askWhat great bereavement weighed upon her soul,To which she answered: “Sir, I sorrow notFor any one within this hallowed ground,Nor elsewhere for the dead; but for this churchI grieve, when I behold how it is doomedTo dire destruction”—here she paused and sighed.Now he surmised she was the prophetess,The sibyl whose renown had come to him,And therefore asked that she would further tellAbout her vision of the things to be.“I see two saplings, of the mountain ash,Grow up, one on each side of this thy church,I also see a breach made in the wall,And when the saplings have grown up to meet—As mighty trees above the chancel-roof,And when the rent shall grow sufficient wideTo be the hiding of a prayer book,Then shall the church sink down and be no more.”Then quote the priest, with frown upon his face:“The house built on a rock can never sink.”“But what is built on sand the floods destroy,”The sibyl said, and quickly went away.* * * * * * * *Into the church the parson passed, and kneltBefore the altar in an earnest prayer,That God would have great mercy on the soulOf his departed friend whose earthly lifeHad been cut off in a most tragic way;His widow now bestowing on the churchRich offerings—atonements for his deedsOf sinfulness—outweighing charity;And while he prayed, he seemed to hear the cryAnd groaning of the soul, from out the fireOf purgatory; supplications strongAscended to the mercy-seat of GodFrom humble altar-steps, until he felt,The soul was loosed in heaven as on earth.Departing from the church, he looked aboutFor that strange, mournful face; but she was gone.Then came a thought to him, a memoryOf something which the baron him had told:How on a summer’s day, while on a hunt,He met a maiden in a forest glen,A slender girl of beauty, such as heHad seldom seen—of Oriental cast,Who weeping told him of his fate most dire,That fire should him consume, a prophesySo terribly fulfilled, and now, perchance,The very same had prophesied to him;This thought possessed his mind, as home he strode,With dark forbodings of impending doom.* * * * * * * *It was a Sunday, in the month of June,A morn of most bewitching summer-charms;The air was charged with fragrance of the trees,Of blooming cherry trees, and glist’ning birch,Of mountain ash and tow’ring balsam trees,Of hazel-wood and prickly juniper,Of alder trees along the winding brooks,Of mountain forest of the pungent pine;Of thousand flowers in the meads and vales,An odor sweet—unknown to tropic clime.—Within God’s acre stood the nodding roseIn checkered sunlight, neath the cypress tree,And greeted every breeze that wandered by.Groups of the peasant folk were gatheringAbout the graves, in silent thoughtfulness,And some in sorrow round the recent mounds;The air so calm and mild with fragrance filled,The tolling of the church bells deep and strong,Made this a day of sweet solemnity,Felt by the aged and the youth alike;And while they lingered, lo, the sibyl came.From group to group a whisper passed with awe:“It is the sibyl!” Slowly gatheringAbout her, fearing what she might pronounce,They gazed upon her pale and mournful face.“All is but vanity, all things are nought,All flesh is grass, which flourisheth a while,Then withers, dies, and mingles with the dust,—Like leaves upon the trees which now are green,And full of juice, but in the autumn turnAll sear and yellow, falling to the ground,Whirled by the chilling blast into a heap,—And thus must ye return to dust some day,And all your work must perish, even so;Yea, even the church must perish on that day,When crowns of mountain ash trees meet aboveThe chancel roof, and when the wall receivesWithin its rent a common prayer book,Then shall the earth engulf it, and the prideOf generations perish in the deep.”Thus spake the sibyl, and the fearful crowdDispleasure showed by mien and murmuring;One, much perturbed, essayed to argue thus:“Thy words, O woman, are but idle talk;This church, built on such firm and rocky ground,Can never sink, such prophecy is vain;”To which she answered with a sigh subdued:“I’ve told you only what I’ve heard and seenIn truest vision of the things to come.”These words were uttered as the last bell rangIts summons to the Mass, obeyed at onceBy all the people, leaving her alone;And while they prayed, she found a resting-placeWithin the cooling shadow of the church,And listened to a lark that soared on high,Against the blue of heaven’s temple-dome,And to the chorus ’mongst the sighing trees,But most of all did note the jack-daws cry,That melancholy bird of occult hue;As in a trance she listened to them all,To thousand voices of a summer’s day;But ere the Mass was ended rose and wentAlong a forest path her solitary way.* * * * * * * *Then after many years, upon a mornIn early autumn, when the aspen treesWere turning golden, and the starlings sangIn darkling flocks from meadows shorn and sear,The pastor took his much accustomed walk,For he did love to be alone and museUpon the wondrous scenes around his home,And feel great nature’s sweet and changing moods.Although the years had turned his hair to grey,And robbed his steps of elasticity,Still was his spirit quite susceptibleTo happiness, but more to sorrow’s touch,And on a day like this with feelings mixed,The sadness of the dying summer won,And thoughts of life, its purpose and its endDid occupy his mind as he did meetThe sibyl, by a certain turn of road;For twenty years he had not seen her face,And it did startle him to meet her now.She, too, had changed, and silver locks adornedHer noble forehead, but her eyes were keenAnd piercing, even as in days of youth.And as she stopped to speak with him, he feltTheir searching glances knew his very soul.“Long working-day has God ordained for thee”,She said, to which he sadly answered thus:“My life seems but a transitory dream,And all its efforts profitless and vain.”“When thou art dust, thy prayer shall be heard,”She said a-smiling, and passed on her way.He too moved on, while pondering her words,—The dark enigma of the prophetess.* * * * * * * *The Sibyl’s prophecies we thus have heard,And their fulfilment now we will relate,Which have their place in ages afterwards.—The priest as well as prophetess were gone,And so were generations after them,Half hidden by the dread oblivion;The prophecy forgotten;—but a fewHad heard it as an old tradition vague,A fable only, to which none gave heed,Though twain ash saplings grew from year to year,And saw at least two generations pass,Before their branches met above the church;A breach also was creeping from the groundUp through the side-wall’s massive masonry,Increasing with the changes of the years,Two things which did recall the sibyl’s lore,And led the people to cut down the trees,To fill the rent and hide it from man’s view.Again they felt assured that all was well,But from the roots new shoots began to growAnd unmolested through full many years.* * * * * * * *For ages had the river sung its song,A-blending with the church bells’ melody;May be it was the charm of liquid chimes,Which drew the river closer year by year,But almost imperceptibly,Until one spring it overflowed its banks,And in a rage, fed by the mountain-streams,Did wear away the distance from the church,And forced its course up to the church-yard wall.A gruesome scene it wrought, as days went by;The coffins in the graves began to show,And bones in sepulchres of old decay;Occasionally came a musty skullA-whirling down the maelstrom of the flood,And now and then a crash and splash was heard,When some tall monument did tumble down,Its name and praise lost in the seething deep,For nought can man achieve but it is doomed,At last, to ruin and oblivion.And mighty trees were undermined and sankWith loads of earth, their branches ’mid the stream,Like outstreched arms, imploring heav’n for help.The people also lifted hands in prayer,For night and day they feared the dreadful hour,When—as it seemed—the church must be destroyed.The pastor summoned them to spend a dayIn penitence and supplication true.They came from far and near both old and young,Yea, even the sick and crippled folk were brought,That all might help to lift one prayer to heaven,A common prayer from their humble hearts,Through him who knelt upon the altar stair,Whose voice had notes of anguish for his church.With tears a penitential psalm was sung,On bended knee; and when again they roseTo leave the place, they passed with downcast headsOut through the chancel door, beside the whichThe old time rent was plainly visible,And where again the mountain-ash had reachedAbove the roof, and met another’s crown.With fear they listened to the water’s roar,(Now only hundred cubits from the church)And to the moaning of the chilly wind,Which bare the rainclouds o’er the naked fields.* * * * * * * *It was the midnight hour, and densely dark,In torrents fell the rain, the thunder rolled,And lurid lightning gleamed across the sky,Its light revealing nature’s misery,And one lone woman groping ’mongst the graves,Who sought the church that she too there mightpray,The only one who at the mid-day massHad absent been, for death had kept her home,—Her husband struggling with the last grim foe.The struggle being ended, she desiredTo share in that great prayer of the day.For this she stemmed the terror of the nightAnd spectral fear of sepulchres and shrine;She found the door unlocked and opened it,She entered, crossed herself, and sought a pew,And fervently God’s mercy did implore.Then something strange did happen, for behold,The church became with dazzling light illumed,And stranger still, a crowd of people streamedThrough every door, and without footfall sound.A congregation, not of mundane mien,But glorious in countenance and dress,Whose utter silence seemed a breath of praise.They filled the seats, and by the woman sat;But to her touch they were as empty space.Up from the vaults below emerged a band of priests,Arrayed as in the days when each did serveBefore the altar of this selfsame church;All knelt; but one ascended to the Host,An aged man, whose picture still adornedThe gallery, about whose name there clungThe legend of the sibyl’s prophecy.He led them in a supplication strong,Both for the living and the many dead,Whose ashes were imperiled by the flood,And that kind heaven would spare the sacred shrine.Now Kyrie Eleison sang the flock,With hands outstretched toward burning altar lights.While all the ministers exclaimed: Amen!The woman felt such wondrous happiness,She thought that she had died and gone to heaven,Yea, all at once she felt assured of this,For now she saw her husband, and near himTwo little ones, departed years ago.She ran with joy to clasp them in her arms,But they did vanish from her fond embrace;Yea, all did vanish, even the heavenly lights,And she stood there alone in darkness gross;The silence, too, was gone, and now the storm,Which raged in all its fury, took its place.A distant rumbling noise was clearly heard,And then a terror-striking thunder-crash;The church did tremble in its very depths;The woman thought the judgment-day had come;Her strength did fail her, and she swooned away.* * * * * * * *When morning o’er the mountain-tops appeared,There was no cloud to hinder its approach,And all creation hailed its harbinger:The first faint blushes of the snowcapped peak;The raindrops on the grass and upon treesSoon glittered like innumerable pearlsAnd diamonds on the bosom of the earth.The hidden chorus in the woods beganIts songs of praise for the returning calm.In every home the frightened people ’rose,And hardly dared to speak what most they feared,—The church destroyed—and timidly the firstCame to behold the ruins of the night;But when they saw the church still standing there,They ran to tell the people and the priest,Who came with joy and found it even so.A miracle, it seemed, had taken place:The raging flood had wholly disappeared,Its empty channel bearing witness toHow great and terrible had been its pow’r.A mighty landslide from the mountain sideHad changed its course back to an ancient bed,And what the people thought the dreadful noiseOf their beloved sanctuary’s fall,Was of the rushing, rumbling earthen slide.How great was now their joy, when they perceived,That God had heard their prayer and spared His house!With praise the priest across the threshold stepped,And many followed gladly after him,To join in common, heartfelt gratitude;But suddenly an unexpected scenePossessed their souls and filled them with alarm:Before the altar steps a woman lay,Stark dead, it seemed, for cold and pale was she,And for a moment all did hesitateTo touch her, thinking she was surely dead,—A moment—only this, for soon the priestHad ascertained that life was not extinct,And altar-wine helped to resuscitate;Now slowly she emerged from deadly swoon,And gaining consciousness at last could tell,Why she had come to be in such a place,And all the things which she had heard and seen,Of phantom congregation and its mass,Of priests in strange array before the Host.They marvelled greatly at her narrative,When said the pastor: “I believe forsoothThe spirits of the dead have worshiped here,Joined in the prayers of their living friends,And now a legend, clust’ring ’round the nameOf him whose picture you have pointed out,Comes to my mind, the sibyl’s prophecy:“When thou art dead, thy prayer shall be heard.”
Amid a vale in Norway stands a church,An ancient building, on historic ground;Its massive walls are white like newfall’n snow,Its lofty spire seems golden in the sun;Around it mighty elm-trees spread their boughsAnd throw their shadows on the moss-grown graves,And crumbling monuments of centuries,Their music blending with the jack-daw’s cryAnd with the deep, pure tones of bells, whose soundReecho ’mong the wooded hills and dells,Awaking fancies of the Saga-age:Of royal bards who sang before their king,That early morning of the fatal day,When Olaf ’neath his standard of the crossFought pagan armies from those sloping heights,And lost his cause! The altar has been builtAbove the stone, he leaned against, while flowedHis precious life-blood from the cruel wounds;The ground was consecrated by his blood,And when the people understood, and bowedBefore the Christ whose saint they slew, they builtA chapel on the place of martyrdom,Which in succeeding ages was enlarged,Until a worthy monument stood forth.The ravages of time have wrought their change,But it is ne’ertheless the trysting placeBetween the valley’s people and their God,A place which links the present to the past—And heaven’s gates to Norway’s history.* * * * * * * *On parchment, dim with age, a chronicle,Two cycles old, was found within a chest,Amid the iron-coffins in the vaultsBelow the church, which learnèd parsons read,And then restored it to its resting-place.For some strange reason then the narrow doorWas closed up with a solid masonry;But on the people’s lips, from age to age,The legend of that chronicle has passed,And I relate it here as told to me,When but a boy, by my great grandmother.—One day, the legend says, the parish priest,A young and pious man, came to the church,To read the mass for a departed friend,When he beheld a lonely woman standWithin the shadow of a mountain-ash,Which spread its crown of green and red besideThe gate which led into the sacred place.Her hair was black as night, her eyes a deepOf melancholy mystery and dreams;Her chiselled features had the striking charmOf youthful beauty and a mind mature;She was unlike the women of the vale,A stranger whom the priest had never met;And he espied her with a sense of fear.Her sable garb and downcast mien betrayedA state of grief, wherefore the kindly man,Led by a heartfelt sympathy, did askWhat great bereavement weighed upon her soul,To which she answered: “Sir, I sorrow notFor any one within this hallowed ground,Nor elsewhere for the dead; but for this churchI grieve, when I behold how it is doomedTo dire destruction”—here she paused and sighed.Now he surmised she was the prophetess,The sibyl whose renown had come to him,And therefore asked that she would further tellAbout her vision of the things to be.“I see two saplings, of the mountain ash,Grow up, one on each side of this thy church,I also see a breach made in the wall,And when the saplings have grown up to meet—As mighty trees above the chancel-roof,And when the rent shall grow sufficient wideTo be the hiding of a prayer book,Then shall the church sink down and be no more.”Then quote the priest, with frown upon his face:“The house built on a rock can never sink.”“But what is built on sand the floods destroy,”The sibyl said, and quickly went away.* * * * * * * *Into the church the parson passed, and kneltBefore the altar in an earnest prayer,That God would have great mercy on the soulOf his departed friend whose earthly lifeHad been cut off in a most tragic way;His widow now bestowing on the churchRich offerings—atonements for his deedsOf sinfulness—outweighing charity;And while he prayed, he seemed to hear the cryAnd groaning of the soul, from out the fireOf purgatory; supplications strongAscended to the mercy-seat of GodFrom humble altar-steps, until he felt,The soul was loosed in heaven as on earth.Departing from the church, he looked aboutFor that strange, mournful face; but she was gone.Then came a thought to him, a memoryOf something which the baron him had told:How on a summer’s day, while on a hunt,He met a maiden in a forest glen,A slender girl of beauty, such as heHad seldom seen—of Oriental cast,Who weeping told him of his fate most dire,That fire should him consume, a prophesySo terribly fulfilled, and now, perchance,The very same had prophesied to him;This thought possessed his mind, as home he strode,With dark forbodings of impending doom.* * * * * * * *It was a Sunday, in the month of June,A morn of most bewitching summer-charms;The air was charged with fragrance of the trees,Of blooming cherry trees, and glist’ning birch,Of mountain ash and tow’ring balsam trees,Of hazel-wood and prickly juniper,Of alder trees along the winding brooks,Of mountain forest of the pungent pine;Of thousand flowers in the meads and vales,An odor sweet—unknown to tropic clime.—Within God’s acre stood the nodding roseIn checkered sunlight, neath the cypress tree,And greeted every breeze that wandered by.Groups of the peasant folk were gatheringAbout the graves, in silent thoughtfulness,And some in sorrow round the recent mounds;The air so calm and mild with fragrance filled,The tolling of the church bells deep and strong,Made this a day of sweet solemnity,Felt by the aged and the youth alike;And while they lingered, lo, the sibyl came.From group to group a whisper passed with awe:“It is the sibyl!” Slowly gatheringAbout her, fearing what she might pronounce,They gazed upon her pale and mournful face.“All is but vanity, all things are nought,All flesh is grass, which flourisheth a while,Then withers, dies, and mingles with the dust,—Like leaves upon the trees which now are green,And full of juice, but in the autumn turnAll sear and yellow, falling to the ground,Whirled by the chilling blast into a heap,—And thus must ye return to dust some day,And all your work must perish, even so;Yea, even the church must perish on that day,When crowns of mountain ash trees meet aboveThe chancel roof, and when the wall receivesWithin its rent a common prayer book,Then shall the earth engulf it, and the prideOf generations perish in the deep.”Thus spake the sibyl, and the fearful crowdDispleasure showed by mien and murmuring;One, much perturbed, essayed to argue thus:“Thy words, O woman, are but idle talk;This church, built on such firm and rocky ground,Can never sink, such prophecy is vain;”To which she answered with a sigh subdued:“I’ve told you only what I’ve heard and seenIn truest vision of the things to come.”These words were uttered as the last bell rangIts summons to the Mass, obeyed at onceBy all the people, leaving her alone;And while they prayed, she found a resting-placeWithin the cooling shadow of the church,And listened to a lark that soared on high,Against the blue of heaven’s temple-dome,And to the chorus ’mongst the sighing trees,But most of all did note the jack-daws cry,That melancholy bird of occult hue;As in a trance she listened to them all,To thousand voices of a summer’s day;But ere the Mass was ended rose and wentAlong a forest path her solitary way.* * * * * * * *Then after many years, upon a mornIn early autumn, when the aspen treesWere turning golden, and the starlings sangIn darkling flocks from meadows shorn and sear,The pastor took his much accustomed walk,For he did love to be alone and museUpon the wondrous scenes around his home,And feel great nature’s sweet and changing moods.Although the years had turned his hair to grey,And robbed his steps of elasticity,Still was his spirit quite susceptibleTo happiness, but more to sorrow’s touch,And on a day like this with feelings mixed,The sadness of the dying summer won,And thoughts of life, its purpose and its endDid occupy his mind as he did meetThe sibyl, by a certain turn of road;For twenty years he had not seen her face,And it did startle him to meet her now.She, too, had changed, and silver locks adornedHer noble forehead, but her eyes were keenAnd piercing, even as in days of youth.And as she stopped to speak with him, he feltTheir searching glances knew his very soul.“Long working-day has God ordained for thee”,She said, to which he sadly answered thus:“My life seems but a transitory dream,And all its efforts profitless and vain.”“When thou art dust, thy prayer shall be heard,”She said a-smiling, and passed on her way.He too moved on, while pondering her words,—The dark enigma of the prophetess.* * * * * * * *The Sibyl’s prophecies we thus have heard,And their fulfilment now we will relate,Which have their place in ages afterwards.—The priest as well as prophetess were gone,And so were generations after them,Half hidden by the dread oblivion;The prophecy forgotten;—but a fewHad heard it as an old tradition vague,A fable only, to which none gave heed,Though twain ash saplings grew from year to year,And saw at least two generations pass,Before their branches met above the church;A breach also was creeping from the groundUp through the side-wall’s massive masonry,Increasing with the changes of the years,Two things which did recall the sibyl’s lore,And led the people to cut down the trees,To fill the rent and hide it from man’s view.Again they felt assured that all was well,But from the roots new shoots began to growAnd unmolested through full many years.* * * * * * * *For ages had the river sung its song,A-blending with the church bells’ melody;May be it was the charm of liquid chimes,Which drew the river closer year by year,But almost imperceptibly,Until one spring it overflowed its banks,And in a rage, fed by the mountain-streams,Did wear away the distance from the church,And forced its course up to the church-yard wall.A gruesome scene it wrought, as days went by;The coffins in the graves began to show,And bones in sepulchres of old decay;Occasionally came a musty skullA-whirling down the maelstrom of the flood,And now and then a crash and splash was heard,When some tall monument did tumble down,Its name and praise lost in the seething deep,For nought can man achieve but it is doomed,At last, to ruin and oblivion.And mighty trees were undermined and sankWith loads of earth, their branches ’mid the stream,Like outstreched arms, imploring heav’n for help.The people also lifted hands in prayer,For night and day they feared the dreadful hour,When—as it seemed—the church must be destroyed.The pastor summoned them to spend a dayIn penitence and supplication true.They came from far and near both old and young,Yea, even the sick and crippled folk were brought,That all might help to lift one prayer to heaven,A common prayer from their humble hearts,Through him who knelt upon the altar stair,Whose voice had notes of anguish for his church.With tears a penitential psalm was sung,On bended knee; and when again they roseTo leave the place, they passed with downcast headsOut through the chancel door, beside the whichThe old time rent was plainly visible,And where again the mountain-ash had reachedAbove the roof, and met another’s crown.With fear they listened to the water’s roar,(Now only hundred cubits from the church)And to the moaning of the chilly wind,Which bare the rainclouds o’er the naked fields.* * * * * * * *It was the midnight hour, and densely dark,In torrents fell the rain, the thunder rolled,And lurid lightning gleamed across the sky,Its light revealing nature’s misery,And one lone woman groping ’mongst the graves,Who sought the church that she too there mightpray,The only one who at the mid-day massHad absent been, for death had kept her home,—Her husband struggling with the last grim foe.The struggle being ended, she desiredTo share in that great prayer of the day.For this she stemmed the terror of the nightAnd spectral fear of sepulchres and shrine;She found the door unlocked and opened it,She entered, crossed herself, and sought a pew,And fervently God’s mercy did implore.Then something strange did happen, for behold,The church became with dazzling light illumed,And stranger still, a crowd of people streamedThrough every door, and without footfall sound.A congregation, not of mundane mien,But glorious in countenance and dress,Whose utter silence seemed a breath of praise.They filled the seats, and by the woman sat;But to her touch they were as empty space.Up from the vaults below emerged a band of priests,Arrayed as in the days when each did serveBefore the altar of this selfsame church;All knelt; but one ascended to the Host,An aged man, whose picture still adornedThe gallery, about whose name there clungThe legend of the sibyl’s prophecy.He led them in a supplication strong,Both for the living and the many dead,Whose ashes were imperiled by the flood,And that kind heaven would spare the sacred shrine.Now Kyrie Eleison sang the flock,With hands outstretched toward burning altar lights.While all the ministers exclaimed: Amen!The woman felt such wondrous happiness,She thought that she had died and gone to heaven,Yea, all at once she felt assured of this,For now she saw her husband, and near himTwo little ones, departed years ago.She ran with joy to clasp them in her arms,But they did vanish from her fond embrace;Yea, all did vanish, even the heavenly lights,And she stood there alone in darkness gross;The silence, too, was gone, and now the storm,Which raged in all its fury, took its place.A distant rumbling noise was clearly heard,And then a terror-striking thunder-crash;The church did tremble in its very depths;The woman thought the judgment-day had come;Her strength did fail her, and she swooned away.* * * * * * * *When morning o’er the mountain-tops appeared,There was no cloud to hinder its approach,And all creation hailed its harbinger:The first faint blushes of the snowcapped peak;The raindrops on the grass and upon treesSoon glittered like innumerable pearlsAnd diamonds on the bosom of the earth.The hidden chorus in the woods beganIts songs of praise for the returning calm.In every home the frightened people ’rose,And hardly dared to speak what most they feared,—The church destroyed—and timidly the firstCame to behold the ruins of the night;But when they saw the church still standing there,They ran to tell the people and the priest,Who came with joy and found it even so.A miracle, it seemed, had taken place:The raging flood had wholly disappeared,Its empty channel bearing witness toHow great and terrible had been its pow’r.A mighty landslide from the mountain sideHad changed its course back to an ancient bed,And what the people thought the dreadful noiseOf their beloved sanctuary’s fall,Was of the rushing, rumbling earthen slide.How great was now their joy, when they perceived,That God had heard their prayer and spared His house!With praise the priest across the threshold stepped,And many followed gladly after him,To join in common, heartfelt gratitude;But suddenly an unexpected scenePossessed their souls and filled them with alarm:Before the altar steps a woman lay,Stark dead, it seemed, for cold and pale was she,And for a moment all did hesitateTo touch her, thinking she was surely dead,—A moment—only this, for soon the priestHad ascertained that life was not extinct,And altar-wine helped to resuscitate;Now slowly she emerged from deadly swoon,And gaining consciousness at last could tell,Why she had come to be in such a place,And all the things which she had heard and seen,Of phantom congregation and its mass,Of priests in strange array before the Host.They marvelled greatly at her narrative,When said the pastor: “I believe forsoothThe spirits of the dead have worshiped here,Joined in the prayers of their living friends,And now a legend, clust’ring ’round the nameOf him whose picture you have pointed out,Comes to my mind, the sibyl’s prophecy:“When thou art dead, thy prayer shall be heard.”
Amid a vale in Norway stands a church,An ancient building, on historic ground;Its massive walls are white like newfall’n snow,Its lofty spire seems golden in the sun;Around it mighty elm-trees spread their boughsAnd throw their shadows on the moss-grown graves,And crumbling monuments of centuries,Their music blending with the jack-daw’s cryAnd with the deep, pure tones of bells, whose soundReecho ’mong the wooded hills and dells,Awaking fancies of the Saga-age:Of royal bards who sang before their king,That early morning of the fatal day,When Olaf ’neath his standard of the crossFought pagan armies from those sloping heights,And lost his cause! The altar has been builtAbove the stone, he leaned against, while flowedHis precious life-blood from the cruel wounds;The ground was consecrated by his blood,And when the people understood, and bowedBefore the Christ whose saint they slew, they builtA chapel on the place of martyrdom,Which in succeeding ages was enlarged,Until a worthy monument stood forth.The ravages of time have wrought their change,But it is ne’ertheless the trysting placeBetween the valley’s people and their God,A place which links the present to the past—And heaven’s gates to Norway’s history.* * * * * * * *On parchment, dim with age, a chronicle,Two cycles old, was found within a chest,Amid the iron-coffins in the vaultsBelow the church, which learnèd parsons read,And then restored it to its resting-place.For some strange reason then the narrow doorWas closed up with a solid masonry;But on the people’s lips, from age to age,The legend of that chronicle has passed,And I relate it here as told to me,When but a boy, by my great grandmother.—One day, the legend says, the parish priest,A young and pious man, came to the church,To read the mass for a departed friend,When he beheld a lonely woman standWithin the shadow of a mountain-ash,Which spread its crown of green and red besideThe gate which led into the sacred place.Her hair was black as night, her eyes a deepOf melancholy mystery and dreams;Her chiselled features had the striking charmOf youthful beauty and a mind mature;She was unlike the women of the vale,A stranger whom the priest had never met;And he espied her with a sense of fear.Her sable garb and downcast mien betrayedA state of grief, wherefore the kindly man,Led by a heartfelt sympathy, did askWhat great bereavement weighed upon her soul,To which she answered: “Sir, I sorrow notFor any one within this hallowed ground,Nor elsewhere for the dead; but for this churchI grieve, when I behold how it is doomedTo dire destruction”—here she paused and sighed.Now he surmised she was the prophetess,The sibyl whose renown had come to him,And therefore asked that she would further tellAbout her vision of the things to be.“I see two saplings, of the mountain ash,Grow up, one on each side of this thy church,I also see a breach made in the wall,And when the saplings have grown up to meet—As mighty trees above the chancel-roof,And when the rent shall grow sufficient wideTo be the hiding of a prayer book,Then shall the church sink down and be no more.”Then quote the priest, with frown upon his face:“The house built on a rock can never sink.”“But what is built on sand the floods destroy,”The sibyl said, and quickly went away.* * * * * * * *Into the church the parson passed, and kneltBefore the altar in an earnest prayer,That God would have great mercy on the soulOf his departed friend whose earthly lifeHad been cut off in a most tragic way;His widow now bestowing on the churchRich offerings—atonements for his deedsOf sinfulness—outweighing charity;And while he prayed, he seemed to hear the cryAnd groaning of the soul, from out the fireOf purgatory; supplications strongAscended to the mercy-seat of GodFrom humble altar-steps, until he felt,The soul was loosed in heaven as on earth.Departing from the church, he looked aboutFor that strange, mournful face; but she was gone.Then came a thought to him, a memoryOf something which the baron him had told:How on a summer’s day, while on a hunt,He met a maiden in a forest glen,A slender girl of beauty, such as heHad seldom seen—of Oriental cast,Who weeping told him of his fate most dire,That fire should him consume, a prophesySo terribly fulfilled, and now, perchance,The very same had prophesied to him;This thought possessed his mind, as home he strode,With dark forbodings of impending doom.* * * * * * * *It was a Sunday, in the month of June,A morn of most bewitching summer-charms;The air was charged with fragrance of the trees,Of blooming cherry trees, and glist’ning birch,Of mountain ash and tow’ring balsam trees,Of hazel-wood and prickly juniper,Of alder trees along the winding brooks,Of mountain forest of the pungent pine;Of thousand flowers in the meads and vales,An odor sweet—unknown to tropic clime.—Within God’s acre stood the nodding roseIn checkered sunlight, neath the cypress tree,And greeted every breeze that wandered by.Groups of the peasant folk were gatheringAbout the graves, in silent thoughtfulness,And some in sorrow round the recent mounds;The air so calm and mild with fragrance filled,The tolling of the church bells deep and strong,Made this a day of sweet solemnity,Felt by the aged and the youth alike;And while they lingered, lo, the sibyl came.From group to group a whisper passed with awe:“It is the sibyl!” Slowly gatheringAbout her, fearing what she might pronounce,They gazed upon her pale and mournful face.“All is but vanity, all things are nought,All flesh is grass, which flourisheth a while,Then withers, dies, and mingles with the dust,—Like leaves upon the trees which now are green,And full of juice, but in the autumn turnAll sear and yellow, falling to the ground,Whirled by the chilling blast into a heap,—And thus must ye return to dust some day,And all your work must perish, even so;Yea, even the church must perish on that day,When crowns of mountain ash trees meet aboveThe chancel roof, and when the wall receivesWithin its rent a common prayer book,Then shall the earth engulf it, and the prideOf generations perish in the deep.”Thus spake the sibyl, and the fearful crowdDispleasure showed by mien and murmuring;One, much perturbed, essayed to argue thus:“Thy words, O woman, are but idle talk;This church, built on such firm and rocky ground,Can never sink, such prophecy is vain;”To which she answered with a sigh subdued:“I’ve told you only what I’ve heard and seenIn truest vision of the things to come.”These words were uttered as the last bell rangIts summons to the Mass, obeyed at onceBy all the people, leaving her alone;And while they prayed, she found a resting-placeWithin the cooling shadow of the church,And listened to a lark that soared on high,Against the blue of heaven’s temple-dome,And to the chorus ’mongst the sighing trees,But most of all did note the jack-daws cry,That melancholy bird of occult hue;As in a trance she listened to them all,To thousand voices of a summer’s day;But ere the Mass was ended rose and wentAlong a forest path her solitary way.* * * * * * * *Then after many years, upon a mornIn early autumn, when the aspen treesWere turning golden, and the starlings sangIn darkling flocks from meadows shorn and sear,The pastor took his much accustomed walk,For he did love to be alone and museUpon the wondrous scenes around his home,And feel great nature’s sweet and changing moods.Although the years had turned his hair to grey,And robbed his steps of elasticity,Still was his spirit quite susceptibleTo happiness, but more to sorrow’s touch,And on a day like this with feelings mixed,The sadness of the dying summer won,And thoughts of life, its purpose and its endDid occupy his mind as he did meetThe sibyl, by a certain turn of road;For twenty years he had not seen her face,And it did startle him to meet her now.She, too, had changed, and silver locks adornedHer noble forehead, but her eyes were keenAnd piercing, even as in days of youth.And as she stopped to speak with him, he feltTheir searching glances knew his very soul.“Long working-day has God ordained for thee”,She said, to which he sadly answered thus:“My life seems but a transitory dream,And all its efforts profitless and vain.”“When thou art dust, thy prayer shall be heard,”She said a-smiling, and passed on her way.He too moved on, while pondering her words,—The dark enigma of the prophetess.* * * * * * * *The Sibyl’s prophecies we thus have heard,And their fulfilment now we will relate,Which have their place in ages afterwards.—The priest as well as prophetess were gone,And so were generations after them,Half hidden by the dread oblivion;The prophecy forgotten;—but a fewHad heard it as an old tradition vague,A fable only, to which none gave heed,Though twain ash saplings grew from year to year,And saw at least two generations pass,Before their branches met above the church;A breach also was creeping from the groundUp through the side-wall’s massive masonry,Increasing with the changes of the years,Two things which did recall the sibyl’s lore,And led the people to cut down the trees,To fill the rent and hide it from man’s view.Again they felt assured that all was well,But from the roots new shoots began to growAnd unmolested through full many years.* * * * * * * *For ages had the river sung its song,A-blending with the church bells’ melody;May be it was the charm of liquid chimes,Which drew the river closer year by year,But almost imperceptibly,Until one spring it overflowed its banks,And in a rage, fed by the mountain-streams,Did wear away the distance from the church,And forced its course up to the church-yard wall.A gruesome scene it wrought, as days went by;The coffins in the graves began to show,And bones in sepulchres of old decay;Occasionally came a musty skullA-whirling down the maelstrom of the flood,And now and then a crash and splash was heard,When some tall monument did tumble down,Its name and praise lost in the seething deep,For nought can man achieve but it is doomed,At last, to ruin and oblivion.And mighty trees were undermined and sankWith loads of earth, their branches ’mid the stream,Like outstreched arms, imploring heav’n for help.The people also lifted hands in prayer,For night and day they feared the dreadful hour,When—as it seemed—the church must be destroyed.The pastor summoned them to spend a dayIn penitence and supplication true.They came from far and near both old and young,Yea, even the sick and crippled folk were brought,That all might help to lift one prayer to heaven,A common prayer from their humble hearts,Through him who knelt upon the altar stair,Whose voice had notes of anguish for his church.With tears a penitential psalm was sung,On bended knee; and when again they roseTo leave the place, they passed with downcast headsOut through the chancel door, beside the whichThe old time rent was plainly visible,And where again the mountain-ash had reachedAbove the roof, and met another’s crown.With fear they listened to the water’s roar,(Now only hundred cubits from the church)And to the moaning of the chilly wind,Which bare the rainclouds o’er the naked fields.* * * * * * * *It was the midnight hour, and densely dark,In torrents fell the rain, the thunder rolled,And lurid lightning gleamed across the sky,Its light revealing nature’s misery,And one lone woman groping ’mongst the graves,Who sought the church that she too there mightpray,The only one who at the mid-day massHad absent been, for death had kept her home,—Her husband struggling with the last grim foe.The struggle being ended, she desiredTo share in that great prayer of the day.For this she stemmed the terror of the nightAnd spectral fear of sepulchres and shrine;She found the door unlocked and opened it,She entered, crossed herself, and sought a pew,And fervently God’s mercy did implore.Then something strange did happen, for behold,The church became with dazzling light illumed,And stranger still, a crowd of people streamedThrough every door, and without footfall sound.A congregation, not of mundane mien,But glorious in countenance and dress,Whose utter silence seemed a breath of praise.They filled the seats, and by the woman sat;But to her touch they were as empty space.Up from the vaults below emerged a band of priests,Arrayed as in the days when each did serveBefore the altar of this selfsame church;All knelt; but one ascended to the Host,An aged man, whose picture still adornedThe gallery, about whose name there clungThe legend of the sibyl’s prophecy.He led them in a supplication strong,Both for the living and the many dead,Whose ashes were imperiled by the flood,And that kind heaven would spare the sacred shrine.Now Kyrie Eleison sang the flock,With hands outstretched toward burning altar lights.While all the ministers exclaimed: Amen!The woman felt such wondrous happiness,She thought that she had died and gone to heaven,Yea, all at once she felt assured of this,For now she saw her husband, and near himTwo little ones, departed years ago.She ran with joy to clasp them in her arms,But they did vanish from her fond embrace;Yea, all did vanish, even the heavenly lights,And she stood there alone in darkness gross;The silence, too, was gone, and now the storm,Which raged in all its fury, took its place.A distant rumbling noise was clearly heard,And then a terror-striking thunder-crash;The church did tremble in its very depths;The woman thought the judgment-day had come;Her strength did fail her, and she swooned away.* * * * * * * *When morning o’er the mountain-tops appeared,There was no cloud to hinder its approach,And all creation hailed its harbinger:The first faint blushes of the snowcapped peak;The raindrops on the grass and upon treesSoon glittered like innumerable pearlsAnd diamonds on the bosom of the earth.The hidden chorus in the woods beganIts songs of praise for the returning calm.In every home the frightened people ’rose,And hardly dared to speak what most they feared,—The church destroyed—and timidly the firstCame to behold the ruins of the night;But when they saw the church still standing there,They ran to tell the people and the priest,Who came with joy and found it even so.A miracle, it seemed, had taken place:The raging flood had wholly disappeared,Its empty channel bearing witness toHow great and terrible had been its pow’r.A mighty landslide from the mountain sideHad changed its course back to an ancient bed,And what the people thought the dreadful noiseOf their beloved sanctuary’s fall,Was of the rushing, rumbling earthen slide.How great was now their joy, when they perceived,That God had heard their prayer and spared His house!With praise the priest across the threshold stepped,And many followed gladly after him,To join in common, heartfelt gratitude;But suddenly an unexpected scenePossessed their souls and filled them with alarm:Before the altar steps a woman lay,Stark dead, it seemed, for cold and pale was she,And for a moment all did hesitateTo touch her, thinking she was surely dead,—A moment—only this, for soon the priestHad ascertained that life was not extinct,And altar-wine helped to resuscitate;Now slowly she emerged from deadly swoon,And gaining consciousness at last could tell,Why she had come to be in such a place,And all the things which she had heard and seen,Of phantom congregation and its mass,Of priests in strange array before the Host.They marvelled greatly at her narrative,When said the pastor: “I believe forsoothThe spirits of the dead have worshiped here,Joined in the prayers of their living friends,And now a legend, clust’ring ’round the nameOf him whose picture you have pointed out,Comes to my mind, the sibyl’s prophecy:“When thou art dead, thy prayer shall be heard.”