Classic Poem

Dark-working Fate, who turnest with thy hand
The sphered stars that measure human days,
How may we know thy work, or understand
(As He who set thee on the cosmic ways)
The lot that thou dost portion out to each,
The lines that thou dost spin in thy dark maze?
Day tells to day of heaven the voice and speech,
Alas! we see the star, but not the sphere,
Nor thy dark hand, which toward it thou dost reach:
Only those shining points to us appear
Which therefore we deem all: but still unkenned
The subtler fatal ether doth career.
That which befell Joanna must be penned,
Which showed thy dark contrary influence,
While she in convent her sad days did spend
Long ere that day that she departed thence
Came those which doubled all her grief of mind,
And made more wretched her sad residence.
There was a priest who oft would entrance find
Into that house reputed most severe,
Who being to evil in his thoughts inclined,
As by his office given to holy prayer,
Some harm occasioned in that place, 'twas said,
With some who like himself in nature were —
Which were it so or not, his siege he laid
Against Joanna, when she thither came,
Leaving all else for love of that sweet maid
With thought of her he did his mind inflame;
And presently to urge her gan presume,
Bold from his former use, with words of blame:
Bidding her in her mind for love make room,
Nor leave his solace to a day too late,
Nor still in solitude her youth consume:
Lest dreariness should penitence create,
And peace deceptive fly from her anon,
While weary years drew on to listless date.
Then quickly bade she that ill man begone:
Who, smiling, took his way: yet would renew
His former talk upon occasion.
And when unto a sister there she flew,
No comfort got she, nor direction clear
To make to cease from her this misery new.
And more I cannot tell: suffice it here
That from that hour the sad Joanna hid
This trouble in her breast: nor would appear,
Nor quit her cell, but if some duty bid;
Nor ever on that man would cast her eyes,
Nor walk with any there that companied.
Which when the man perceived, and with surprise
Found her pure soul locked up in deep offence,
Rage, hatred, filled him: now would he despise
That which with black care truly charged his sense.
But when despite could not with care contend
Then rage put off despiteous pretence,
And hatred stood confirmed: he gan to spend
Long days devising how himself to wreak
Upon that creature mild: but, to make end,
Nor further in his wretched mind to seek,
His purposed hate was turned to love again,
Whenas he saw her face, or heard her speak
If he heard others wroth with her disdain,
Or whatso chance it were, I little trow
Which might his hate to love again constrain:
But thenceforth love, who oft the vile doth throw,
By the sight of lovely virtue, to despair,
Unto the point of madness urged his woe.
Thin grew he; wild his haggard eyes did glare,
And up and down he wandered nights and days,
Seeking some glimpse of her who was his care.
Insomuch that his altered looks and ways
To those who hitherto found better cheer
In him, wrought wonder, and mislike gan raise
Thus went the time: and the disease more near
On his dark mind, like ravening thing, did cling
To chapel hied he nor for mass nor prayer,
And of his functions would he not a thing:
Nor yet, again, would he his sickness own
Unto his piteous fellow's questioning.
For now he feared to be shut up alone,
And lose those haggard walks, whereby each day
The harvest of new grief for him was sown
At length he heard Joanna gone away,
And never to return, what time the sound
Of Gerbert's end the hearts of all did fray.
Which heard, since thus his last hope fell to ground,
He took to bed, complaining sickness sore;
Where by his fellow he was warmly wound,
And with exceeding love nursed evermore,
Fed with soft meats, and watched, — his fellow there,
Who by his brother chaplain set great store.
And well indeed the other seemed to fare,
Eating whatever to his mouth was brought:
But not the lighter grew his keeper's care:
For nought the weakness lessened: and him thought
That in his face such wanness should not be,
And marvelled how the sickness with him wrought
Till once, returning from the chapelry
Into the chamber where the sick man lay,
A darksome streak like blood he chanced to see,
Which from beneath the bed was making way.
Whereat the man a knife unto him showed,
And to him said, " Brother, I did but play
With thy great love, which has to me o'erflowed:
For other love hath shent me: I am slain
For love which I to cherish never owed.
" Her love I, who went hence, nor comes again;
Whom I essayed, and being but denied,
Great malice showed her, which I rue in vain.
" For her I slay myself, well satisfied:
The poor requital of my parting breath
I give for lust, malice, and evil pride. "
And from what else the man said in his death,
It seemed that he this knife in secret caught,
And every day the coverlet beneath
A wound therewith upon his body wrought:
So by degrees his life all flowed away,
And he into extremity was brought.
This grisly thing made noise enow that day.
Seeming to be of utter cruelty,
That one should dare himself thus cut and slay
God's hand keep all men from God's enemy.