Classic Poem

His eye, so seemed it in his slumber, strove
To pierce the gloomy pinewood, where it stretched,
In misty length, a single sombre nave;
While, one behind another ranged, the rings
Of fireflies swung in circles of green light,
Like rocking lamps suspended from a roof.
There, suddenly among the boughs, the wind
Breathed a last sigh, and with it swept away
Those living stars, and all was silence round,
The silentness of an expecting dream.
Then, at the close of that cathedral nave,
A white and radiant vapour softly grew,
Dazzling and formless, which, with silvery gleam,
Lay like a tremulous pavement round the stems.
Far off, resplendent as an altar-piece
Illumined from behind, a Figure rose
Of beauty such as art hath ne'er conceived,
The Virgin-Mother with her Infant Son.
Upon her countenance, rounded like the moon,
An orb of open features, was impressed
The secret of her fortunes, which transcend
The loftiest surmise of created mind.
The sweet maternal instinct there divulged
In deep impassioned silence, to whose depth
Each lineament the while serenely lends
An utterance almost vocal, then appeared
Calmed and arrested by profounder thoughts,
And by the intense tranquillity of bliss
Brooding in chaste enjoyment on itself.
And yet, not wholly wanting was the look
Of pensive self-collection that dispersed,
On the celestial seeming of her face,
A beautiful timidity, through which
Her mortal birth o'er every feature reigned
Triumphant, and harmoniously o'erruled
The ineffable aspect which her heavenly lot
Upon her face transferred, where ecstasy,
Divinely glowing, by remembrances
Of grief, was deeply moved, yet not displaced —


Smitten with love, where there was nought to check
The bold adventure, no monition given
Which might retard its unchastised approach,
Sir Lancelot gazed in rapture on the Child.
Worship of love he proffered, without fear,
And felt no fear, all seemed so beautiful.
Straightway the vision stirred; the Mother hid
The Child, too long, too tenderly beheld;
And a dim trouble up the surface passed
Of that bright vaporous pavement spread around,
Like the black curls of wind that crisp the lake.


From out the vapour, with a tuneful noise,
Arose the Maiden-Mother, with her head
Star-crowned, her feet upon the subject globe,
The writhing serpent bruised beneath her heel,
Herself by grace assumed unto a throne
And neighbourhood unspeakable. Let verse
Seek not for craft of language to declare
The seeming of the Woman glorified,
The Mortal who was Mother of our God —
Him only, singly worshipped evermore,
Singly, with equal glory to the Three.
And underneath the globe was laid a tomb,
O'er which the twelve Apostles bending gazed,
Interpreting the marvel of the flowers,
The white and speckless lilies, that broke forth
And momently grew, budded, flowered and swung
Their waxen censers in the vacant tomb.
Guiding the eyes of nations and of times
Aloft, the Virgin pointed to her Son
In palpable Divinity enthroned,
Yet, lacking not one token of that birth
His Creature was elected to confer.

Enough: such visions were familiar then,
And to the spirit of that age akin,
Mingling the uncertain with the true, while yet
They ministered to real works of grace.
Enough, that Lancelot from that day forth,
In the true knightly fashion of the times,
Was a sworn serf of Mary, with a vow
Made inwardly, and worshipping full oft
With worship falling short and frustrated
By youthful inconsistencies, below
That high devotion which belongs of right
Unto the majesty of Mary, Queen
Of Heaven, and Empress of the Sacred Heart —
Yet, worship such as sanctified his life
And quietly detained him near to God;
Such worship as infallibly secures
Its purity to youth, or, to old age,
The placid harbour of repentant love.