Classic Poem

On the highest cliff, a chapel
Crowns Gallicia's rocky shore;
There the holy Virgin-mother
Blessings endless keeps in store
To the wanderer in the desert
Gleams a golden lode-star there;
To the storm-tost on the ocean
Opens wide a haven fair.

When the vesper-bell is pealing,
Far it sounds the country through;
In the towns and in the cloisters
All the bells are chiming too;
Then the ocean-wave is silenced
That, but now, was heard to roar;
At the rudder kneels the seaman,
Humbly says his “Ave” o'er.

On the day, by men kept holy,
When the Virgin rose on high,
In the Son She bare beholding
God's all glorious majesty;
Then within the holy chapel
Wondrous works are yearly shewn;
Where before She seemed an image,
Makes She then her presence known.

Coloured flags, the cross displaying,
Mark the pilgrims' onward way;
Greets the shore with painted streamers
Every skiff that nears the bay.
Pilgrims, clad in festal garments,
Move the rocky path along;
Up the steep—a Jacob's ladder—
Climbs the heav'n-ascending throng.

After those that triumph, others
Soiled with dust, bare-footed fare;
Shirts of hair are round their bodies,
Ashes on their heads they bear.
These from Christian men's communion
For a time are thrust away;
Unto whom 'tis but permitted
In the porch to kneel and pray.

Last of all a pilgrim panteth,
Hopeless seem his wandering eyes;
Long his beard, and foul and tangled,
Wild his hair that scattered flies.
See! a hoop of rusty iron
Round his body clasped, he wears;
Round his legs and arms are fetters
Clanking as he onward fares.

For that he had slain his brother
In his anger's reckless haste,
From the sword he bade them fashion
Penance-ring to gird his waist;
Far from home and hearth and household
Roams he, ne'er to rest again
Till some wonder wrought by heaven
Break at last his bonds in twain.

Had his feet, now bare and bleeding,
Been encased in iron shoon,
Long had these been cut to fragments—
Rest is still a hopeless boon.
Saint benign he findeth never,
None will grant him sweet release;
Every shrine he suppliant seeketh,
None vouchsafes him hope of peace.

E'en as he the rock had mounted,
Whilst before the porch he bowed,
Sweetly pealed the vesper-summons—
Silent prays the kneeling crowd.
Enters not his foot the chapel
Where the Virgin's form appears,
Glowing in the sun's bright glory
As the sea he slowly nears.

O'er the clouds, the sea, the landscape
Streams a glory richly blent;
Stood the golden gates asunder
As the Virgin upward went?
Still upon the rosy cloudlets
Glows her footsteps' radiant trace?
Casts She through the gleaming azure
Gentle looks of healing grace?

All return consoled, rejoicing—
One alone forbears to rise;
Still upon, the chapel-threshold
Pallid, motionless, he lies
Closely round his limbs and body
Clings unsnapped the fetters' might;
Free from bonds his soul ascendeth,
Floating in the Sea of Light!