Classic Poem

So eleven ages fled
Since the Lord rose from the dead,
Maker of this little lake,
Moth and bird and pinewood brake,
To redeem the sons of earth
And give to them a better birth,
Not without the element
From the earth's own bosom sent,
Thus to heighten and to bless
Our old mother's loveliness,
From her surface to unweave
All the ravelled web which Eve,
Name her with a tender thought!
Hath o'er field and forest wrought,
To enrich her with a dower
Of true sacramental power.
Not without her blameless gifts
Jesus her lost children lifts
To a nature all divine,
Better, dearest earth! than thine.
So eleven ages passed,
While the pines their shadow cast,
Making summer noonday cool
By the green sequestered pool.
Hither for the love of Mary
Came a gentle Missionary,
With an image of black wood
From an ancient limetree hewed,
Shaped for her, the Mother mild,
Blessed Mary with her Child.
With the Image to the dell
Came the gift of miracle,
Shrined within a sylvan Cell.
Far away mid cultured bowers
Rose St. Lambert's convent towers,
The martyred Saint, who bravely stood
Against King Pepin; and his blood,
By the lewd Alpais slain,
Ran in Liege street like rain.
Out from yon Cistercian home
This kind-mannered Monk hath come
With St. Mary and her Child
So to hallow the green wild.
Not the moon when she o'ertops
Lofty Seeberg's ragged copse,
Clearing all the dusky pine,
In the starry sky to shine,
Hunting with her arrowy beam
Open spots in Salza's stream,
Where at times it may emerge
Scarce beyond the forest's verge,
Not the stealthy breath of spring
Up the woodlands murmuring,
Drawing after it a veil
Of thin green across the dale,
Like an Angel's robe behind,
Still, or stirred by odorous wind:
Not so welcome, moon or spring,
For the quiet gifts they bring;
Advents though they be of bliss,
They bear not a boon like this,
Blessed Mary and her Son
Deep into the woodlands gone,
One poor monk, a beadsman lowly,
With gilt vessels rude but holy,
And a power of miracle
Shed into the whispering dell,
Lodged within and screened apart
In the forest's dusky heart.
Now amid the woodmen nigh
Marriage is a blissful tie,
And around the infant's birth
Is a light of Christian mirth,
And the monk can breathe a breath
On the anxious face of death.
Life is drawn within a ring
Of most peaceful hallowing.
To the Mother and the Maid
These rude men their breasts unlade,
Seeking to her Son for aid.
Like the valley's evening mist
By the pensive sunset kissed,
Charities and virtues rise
With all household sanctities,
While meek hymns and praises flow
From the hermitage below;
And the little bell is rung
When the blessed Mass is sung,
All, a blameless incense, given
From the pinewoods into Heaven,
From the shaggy Styrian dell
Of St. Mary of the Cell.
Thou wert not unstirred, dear lake!
Though perchance thou didst not wake
From the sleep wherein the wind
Doth thy green depths seem to bind,
Sighing sweetly, softly, sadly,
Sighing sometimes almost gladly,
As the pinetree only sighs,
Maker of earth's elegies:
Thou wert not unstirred that day,
When upon thy marge at play
First a Christian child was seen,
White as snowwreath on a green,
Pure as nature's self, and bright
With a more abounding light.
Let the gentle memory
Of the plain monk honored be,
He who for the love of Mary
Hither came a missionary,
A devout and nameless being
To the Styrian forests fleeing,
To baptize the woodman rude
In this shady solitude,
And to add a better mirth
To the glory of the earth.
Holy monk! thy good deeds shine
Above peer or palatine,
Gleaming through the crowded past
With a radiance calm and chaste,
Like a steady, pensive star,
By itself, and brighter far
Than the sparkling ruddy ring
Round the name of some old king.
Yet thy quiet name is gone
In the shadow of some throne,
Lost amid the jewelled throng,
All embalmed in unwise song.
Let the pageant pass away,
There is thy domestic ray;
There art thou—a lily-flower
In a most unthought-of bower.
Or a very fragrant tree,
Which we smell but cannot see,
Buried in the tangled wood,
Scenting all the neighborhood.
Thou, a man of simple ways,
Never could'st have joyless days;
Thou, a man of simple wants,
Must have loved the sylvan haunts.
Ever to thy spirit stealing
With a touch of heavenly feeling.
Oft I doubt not by this lake,
Forcing through the pinewood brake,
Thou didst spend the twilight dim,
Chanting some rough latin hymn,
Hallowing the evening air
With devout half-spoken prayer.
Mists upon the mighty hills
And the alder-belted rills,
Chirping bird and lowly flower,
And the rainbow in the shower,
And the air when it receives
Incense from the withered leaves,
And the pinetrees in the sun,
And the green lake at the noon
Imaging the empty moon,
Whose unfreighted orb is white
For the lack of yellow light;—
Like the Church whose Lord must go
Ere she can reflect the glow
Of His glory, deep and vast,
In her bridal bosom cast,
So the moon all day must bide
For an evening Whitsuntide:—
All this common tranquil round.
This sweet ring of sight and sound,
Did of old belong to thee,
And to-day belongs to me;
And it soothed thy wrinkled brow
And thy heart thou knew'st not how.
Ah kind-mannered monk! I seem,
As in some strong-featured dream,
To come nigh and spend an hour
With thee in this Styrian bower;
So much hath the blissful thought
Of thy doings in me wrought.
Centuries are yielding things:
Unity of spirit brings
Land to land, and year to year,
And old generations near.
Thus I walk o'er this green land
Through the forests hand in hand
With the simple Missionary,
Who for love of Mother Mary
Was content apart to dwell
With her Image in his cell.
And thus for full a hundred years
Simple joys and simple fears
Compassed some Cistercian brother,
Beadsman to the blessed Mother;
Till it chanced that far away
In the drear Moravia,
Margrave Henry dreamed a dream,
Where the Mother-Maid did seem
To heal him of his sore disease
In a cell amid green trees,
And the visionary lines,
Pictured Styria's rocks and pines,
And the Margrave saw the lake,
And the open pinewood brake.
So he came with trusting soul,
And St. Mary made him whole.
Costly Church with tower and bell
Rises in the sylvan dell,
Arching o'er the antique cell.
Now in long and gorgeous line
Emperors crowd unto the shrine,
Peers and ladies and proud kings
Kneel there with their offerings;
Silken banners, bright and brave,
Through the dusky pinewoods wave,
And the peasants of far lands
Come with wild flowers in their hands,—
All come here to Mary's haunt
With a sorrow or a want.
Yet I ween the shaggy dell
Witnessed worthier miracle,
When the woodmen of the place
Were transformed by inward grace;
And from their wild manners grew
Flowers that feed on heavenly dew;
And soft thoughts and gentle ways
Could beguile their rugged days.
Love of Mary was to them
As the very outer hem
Of the Saviour's priestly vest,
Which they timorously pressed,
And whereby a simple soul
Might for faith's sake be made whole.