Classic Poem

1.

The work is done; the fabric is complete;
Distinct the Traveller sees its distant tower,
Yet, ere his steps attain the sacred seat,
Must toil for many a league and many an hour.
Elate the Abbot sees the pile, and knows,
Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose.

2.

Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride,
Its columns' cluster'd strength and lofty state,
How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side;
What intersecting arches graced its gate;
Its towers how high, its massy walls how strong,
These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song.

3.

Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground,
But little store of charity, I ween,
The passing pilgrim at Moscera found;
And often there the mendicant was seen
Hopeless to turn him from the convent door,
Because this costly work still kept the brethren poor.

4.

Now all is finish'd, and from every side
They flock to view the fabric, young and old
Who now can tell Rodulfo's secret pride,
When, on the Sabbath-day, his eyes behold
The multitudes that crowd his church's floor,
Some sure to serve their God, to see Moscera more?

5.

So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way,
Since sainted for a life of saintly deeds.
He paused, the new-rear'd convent to survey,
And, o'er the structure whilst his eye proceeds,
Sorrowed, as one whose holier feelings deem
That ill so proud a pile did humble monks beseem.

6.

Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw,
And forth he came to greet the holy guest;
For him he knew as one who held the law
Of Benedict, and each severe behest
So duly kept with such religious care,
ThaTheaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer.

7.

" Good brother, welcome! " thus Rodulfo cries
" In sooth it glads me to behold you here;
It is Gualberto! and mine aged eyes
Did not deceive me: yet full many a year
Hath slipp'd away, since last you bade farewell
To me your host and my uncomfortable cell.

8.

" 'Twas but a sorry welcome then you found,
And such as suited ill a guest so dear.
The pile was ruinous, the base unsound;
It glads me more to bid you welcome here,
For you can call to mind our former state;
Come, brother, pass with me the new Moscera's gate. "

9.

So spake the cheerful Abbot; but no smile
Of answering joy relax'd Gualberto's brow;
He raised his hand, and pointed to the pile —
" Moscera better pleased me then, than now;
A palace this, befitting kingly pride!
Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide? "

10.

" Ay, " cries Rodulfo, " 'tis a stately place!
And pomp becomes the House of Worship well.
Nay, scowl not round with so severe a face!
When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell,
Where art exhausted decks the sumptuous hall,
Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all? "

11.

" And ye have rear'd these stately towers on high
To serve your God? " the Monk severe replied;
" It rose from zeal and earnest piety,
And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside?
Abbot, to him who prays with soul sincere,
However poor the cell, God will incline his ear.

12.

" Rodulfo! while this haughty building rose,
Still was the pilgrim welcome at your door?
Did charity relieve the orphan's woes?
Clothed ye the naked? did ye feed the poor?
He who with alms most succors the distress'd,
Proud Abbot! know he serves his heavenly Father best.

13.

" Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell
Who first abandon'd all to serve the Lord?
Their place of worship was the desert cell;
Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal board;
And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by,
They bless'd their gracious God, and " thought it luxury." "

14.

Then anger darken'd in Rodulfo's face;
" Enough of preaching, " sharply he replied;
" Thou art grown envious; 'tis a common case;
Humility is made the cloak of pride.
Proud of our home's magnificence are we,
But thou art far more proud in rags and beggary. "

15.

With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone
" O Father, hear me! If this costly,
Was for thine honor rear'd, and thine all
Bless it, O Father, with thy fostering
Still may it stand, and never evil know,
Long as beside its walls the endless streams flow.

16.

" But, Lord, if vain and worldly-minded member
Have wasted here the wealth which thou lent,
To pamper worldly pride; frown on it then
Soon be thy vengeance manifestly sent!
Let yonder brook, that gently flows beside,
Now from its base sweep down the unholy hours of pride! "

17.

He said, — and lo, the brook no longer flows
The waters pause, and now they swell on high
Erect in one collected heap they rose;
The affrighted brethren from Moscera fly,
And upon all the Saints in Heaven they call,
To save them in their flight from that impending fall.

18.

Down the heap'd waters came, and, with a sound
Like thunder, overthrown the fabric falls
Swept far and wide, its fragments strow ground,
Prone lie its columns now, its high-arch'd walls,
Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide
That from its base swept down the unholy hourts of pride.

*****

19.

Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth
Dear George, or like Moscera's base unsound
This sure I know, that glad am I, in sooth,
He only play'd his pranks on foreign ground
For had he turn'd the stream on England took
The Vandal monk had spoilt full many a goodly view.

20.

Then Malmesbury's arch had never met my sight,
Nor Battle's vast and venerable pile;
I had not traversed then with such delight
The hallowed ruins of our Alfred's isle,
Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestow'd
On those who rob its walls to mend the turnpike road.

21.

Wells would have fallen, dear George, country's pride;
And Canning's stately church been rear'd in vain;
Nor had the traveller Ely's tower descried;
Which when thou seest far o'er the fenny plain,
Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way;
Its ancient beauties sure will well reward delay.

22.

And we should never then have heard, I think,
At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous knell.
The fountain streams that now in Christ-church stink,
Had Niagara'd o'er the quadrangle;
But, as 'twas beauty that deserved the flood,
I ween, dear George, thy own old Pompey might have stood.

23.

Then had not Westminster, the house of God,
Served for a concert-room, or signal-post:
Old Thames, obedient to the father's nod,
Had swept down Greenwich, England's noblest boast;
And, eager to destroy the unholy walls,
Fleet Ditch had roll'd up hill to overwhelm St. Paul's.

24.

George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds
Of saints like this but rubbish, a mere store
Of trash, thaThe flings time away who reads?
And wouldst thou rather bid me puzzle o'er
Matter and Mind and all the eternal round,
Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless profound?

25.

Now do I bless the man who undertook
These Monks and Martyrs to biographize;
And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book,
The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies,
Where waking fancies mix'd with dreams appear,
And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere.

26.

All is not truth; and yet, methinks, 'twere hard
Of wilful fraud such fablers to accuse;
What if a Monk, from better themes debarr d,
Should for an edifying story choose
How some great Saint the Flesh and Fiend o'ercame;
His taste I trow, and not his conscience, were to blame.

27.

No fault of his, if whaThe thus design'd,
Like pious novels for the use of youth,
Obtain'd such hold upon the simple mind
That was received at length for gospel-truth.
A fair account! and shouldst thou like the plea,
Thank thou our valued friend, dear George, who taught it me.

28.

All is not false which seems at first a lie.
Fernan Antolinez, a Spanish knight,
Knett at the mass, when, lo! the troops hard by
Before the expected hour began the fight.
Though courage, duty, honor, summon'd there,
He chose to forfeit all, not leave the unfinish'd prayer.

29.

But while devoutly thus the unarm'd knight
Waits till the holy service should be o'er,
Even then the foremost in the furious fight
Was he beheld to bathe his sword in gore;
First in the van his plumes were seen to play,
And all to him decreed the glory of the day.

30.

The truth is told, and men at once exclaim'd,
Heaven had his Guardian Angel deign'd to send;
And thus the tale is handed down to fame.
Now, if our good Sir Fernan had a friend
Who in this critical season served him well,
Dear George, the tale is true, and yet no miracle.

31.

I am not one who scan with scornful eyes
The dreams which make the enthusiast's best delight;
Nor thou the legendary lore despise,
If of Gualberto yet again I write,
How first impell'd he sought the convent cell;
A simple tale it is, but one that pleased me well.

*****

32.

Fortune had smiled upon Gualberto's birth,
The heir of Valdespesa's rich domains;
An only child, he grew in years and worth,
And well repaid a father's anxious pains.
In many a field that father had been tried,
Well for his valor known, and not less known for pride.

33.

It chanced that one in kindred near allied
Was slain by his hereditary foe;
Much by his sorrow moved, and more by pride,
The father vow'd that blood for blood should flow;
And from his youth Gualberto had been taught
That with unceasing hate should just revenge be sought.

34.

Long did they wait; at length the tidings came
That, through a lone and unfrequented way,
Soon would Anselmo — such the murderer's name —
Pass on his journey home, an easy prey.
" Go, " said the father, " meet him in the wood! "
And young Gualberto went, and laid in wait for blood.

35.

When now the youth was at the forest shade
Arrived, it drew toward the close of day;
Anselmo haply might be long delay'd,
And he, already wearied with his way,
Beneath an ancient oak his limbs reclined,
And thoughts of near revenge alone possess'd his mind.

36.

Slow sunk the glorious sun; a roseate light
Spread o'er the forest from his lingering rays;
The glowing clouds upon Gualberto's sight
Soften'd in shade, — he could not choose but gaze;
And now a placid grayness clad the heaven,
Save where the west retain'd the last green light of even.

37.

Cool breathed the grateful air, and fresher now
The fragrance of the autumnal leaves arose;
The passing gale scarce moved the o'erhanging bough,
And not a sound disturb'd the deep repose,
Save when a falling leaf came fluttering by,
Save the near brooklet's stream that murmur'd quietly.

38.

Is there who has not felt the deep delight,
The hush of soul, that scenes like these impart?
The heart they will not soften is not right;
And young Gualberto was not hard of heart.
Yet sure he thinks revenge becomes him well,
When from a neighboring church he heard the vesper-bell.

39.

The Romanist who hears that vesper-bell,
Howe'er employ'd, must send a prayer to Heaven.
In foreign lands I liked the custom well;
For with the calm and sober thoughts of even
It well accords; and wert thou journeying there,
It would not hurt thee, George, to join that vesper-prayer.

40.

Gualberto had been duly taught to hold
All pious customs with religious care;
And — for the young man's feelings were not cold, —
He never yet had miss'd his vesper-prayer.
But strange misgivings now his heart invade;
And when the vesper-bell had ceased, he had not pray'd.

41.

And wherefore was it thaThe had not pray'd?
The sudden doubt arose within his mind,
And many a former precept then he weigh'd,
The words of Him who died to save mankind;
How 'twas the meek who should inheriTheaven,
And man must man forgive, if he would be forgiven.

42.

Troubled aTheart, almosThe felt a hope,
That yet some chance his victim might delay.
So as he mused adown the neighboring slope
He saw a lonely traveller on his way,
And now he knows the man so much abhors
His holier thoughts are gone, he bares the murderous sword.

43.

" The house of Valdespesa gives the blow
Go, and our vengeance to our kinsman felt
Despair and terror seized the unarm'd foe,
And prostrate at the young man's knees fell,
And stopp'd his hand and cried, " Oh, do not take
A wretched sinner's life! mercy for Jesus sake.

44.

At that most blessed name, as at a spell,
Conscience, the power within him, smote heart.
His hand, for murder raised, unharming fell
He felt cold sweat-drops on his forehead start
A moment mute in holy horror stood,
Then cried, " Joy, joy, my God! I have not shed his blood! "

45.

He raised Anselmo up, and bade him live,
And bless, for both preserved, that holy name
And pray'd the astonish'd foeman to forgive;
The bloody purpose led by which he came
Then to the neighboring church he sped! away
His overburden'd soul before his God to lay.

46.

He ran with breathless speed, — he reach'd the door, —
With rapid throbs his feverish pulses swell
He came to crave for pardon, to adore
For grace vouchsafed; before the cross he fell
And raised his swimming eyes, and thought that there
He saw the imaged Christ smile favoring on the prayer.

47.

A blest illusion! from that very night
The Monk's austerest life devouThe led
And still he felt the enthusiast's deep delight;
Seraphic visions floated round his head;
The joys of heaven foretasted fill'd his soul
And still the good man's name adorns the sainted roll.