Chapter 4
Then he would watch the rosy sunlight glow, That crept along the marble floor below, Passing, as life does, with the passing hours, Now by a shrine all rich with gems and flowers, Now on the brazen letters of a tomb, Then, leaving it again to shade and gloom, And creeping on, to show, distinct and quaint, The kneeling figure of some marble saint: Or lighting up the carvings strange and rare, That told of patient toil, and reverent care; Ivy that trembled on the spray, and ears, Of heavy corn, and slender bulrush spears, And all the thousand tangled weeds that grow In summer, where the silver rivers flow; And demon-heads grotesque, that seemed to glare In impotent wrath on all the beauty there: Then the gold rays up pillared shaft would climb, And so be drawn to heaven, at evening time. And deeper silence, darker shadows flowed On all around, only the windows glowed With blazoned glory, like the shields of light Archangels bear, who, armed with love and might, Watch upon heaven's battlements at night. Then all was shade; the silver lamps that gleamed, Lost in the daylight, in the darkness seemed Like sparks of fire in the dim aisles to shine, Or trembling stars before each separate shrine. Grown half afraid, the child would leave them there, And come out, blinded by the noisy glare That burst upon him from the busy square.
The church was thus his home for rest or play, And as he came and went again each day, The pictured faces that he knew so well, Seemed to smile on him welcome and farewell. But holier, and dearer far than all, One sacred spot his own he loved to call; Save at mid-day, half-hidden by the gloom; The people call it The White Maiden's Tomb: For there she stands; her folded hands are pressed Together, and laid softly on her breast, As if she waited but a word to rise From the dull earth, and pass to the blue skies; Her lips expectant part, she holds her breath, As listening for the angel voice of death. None know how many years have seen her so, Or what the name of her who sleeps below. And here the child would come, and strive to trace, Through the dim twilight, the pure gentle face He loved so well, and here he oft would bring Some violet blossom of the early spring; And climbing softly by the fretted stand, Not to disturb her, lay it in her hand; Or, whispering a soft loving message sweet, Would stoop and kiss the little marble feet. So, when the organ's pealing music rang, He thought amid the gloom the Maiden sang; With reverent simple faith by her he knelt, And fancied what she thought, and what she felt. "Glory to God," re-echoed from her voice, And then his little spirit would rejoice; Or when the Requiem sobbed upon the air, His baby tears dropped with her mournful prayer.
So years fled on, while childish fancies past, The childish love and simple faith could last. The artist-soul awoke in him, the flame Of genius, like the light of Heaven, came Upon his brain, and (as it will, if true) It touched his heart and lit his spirit, too His father saw, and with a proud content Let him forsake the toil where he had spent His youth's first years, and on one happy day Of pride, before the old man passed away, He stood with quivering lips, and the big tears Upon his cheek, and heard the dream of years Living and speaking to his very heart-- The low hushed murmur at the wondrous art Of him, who with young trembling fingers made The great church-organ answer as he played; And, as the uncertain sound grew full and strong, Rush with harmonious spirit-wings along, And thrill with master-power the breathless throng.
The old man died, and years passed on, and still The young musician bent his heart and will To his dear toil. St. Bavon now had grown More dear to him, and even more his own; And as he left it every night he prayed A moment by the archway in the shade, Kneeling once more within the sacred gloom Where the White Maiden watched upon her tomb. His hopes of travel and a world-wide fame, Cold Time had sobered, and his fragile frame; Content at last only in dreams to roam, Away from the tranquillity of home; Content that the poor dwellers by his side Saw in him but the gentle friend and guide, The patient counsellor in the poor strife And petty details of their common life, Who comforted where woe and grief might fall, Nor slighted any pain or want as small, But whose great heart took in and felt for all.
Still he grew famous--many came to be His pupils in the art of harmony. One day a voice floated so pure and free Above his music, that he turned to see What angel sang, and saw before his eyes, What made his heart leap with a strange surprise, His own White Maiden, calm, and pure, and mild, As in his childish dreams she sang and smiled; Her eyes raised up to Heaven, her lips apart, And music overflowing from her heart. But the faint blush that tinged her cheek betrayed No marble statue, but a living maid; Perplexed and startled at his wondering look, Her rustling score of Mozart's Sanctus shook; The uncertain notes, like birds within a snare, Fluttered and died upon the trembling air.
Days passed; each morning saw the maiden stand, Her eyes cast down, her lesson in her hand, Eager to study, never weary, while Repaid by the approving word or smile Of her kind master; days and months fled on; One day the pupil from the choir was gone; Gone to take light, and joy, and youth once more, Within the poor musician's humble door; And to repay, with gentle happy art, The debt so many owed his generous heart. And now, indeed, was one who knew and felt That a great gift of God within him dwelt; One who could listen, who could understand, Whose idle work dropped from her slackened hand, While with wet eyes entranced she stood, nor knew How the melodious winged hours flew; Who loved his art as none had loved before, Yet prized the noble tender spirit more. While the great organ brought from far and near Lovers of harmony to praise and hear, Unmarked by aught save what filled every day, Duty, and toil, and rest, years passed away: And now by the low archway in the shade Beside her mother knelt a little maid, Who, through the great cathedral learned to roam, Climb to the choir, and bring her father home; And stand, demure and solemn by his side, Patient till the last echo softly died; Then place her little hand in his, and go Down the dark winding stair to where below The mother knelt, within the gathering gloom Waiting and praying by the Maiden's Tomb.
So their life went, until, one winter's day, Father and child came there alone to pray-- The mother, gentle soul, had fled away! Their life was altered now, and yet the child Forgot her passionate grief in time, and smiled, Half wondering why, when spring's fresh breezes came, To see her father was no more the same. Half guessing at the shadow of his pain, And then contented if he smiled again, A sad cold smile, that passed in tears away, As re-assured she ran once more to play. And now each year that added grace to grace, Fresh bloom and sunshine to the young girl's face, Brought a strange light in the musician's eyes, As if he saw some starry hope arise, Breaking upon the midnight of sad skies. It might be so: more feeble year by year, The wanderer to his resting-place drew near. One day the Gloria he could play no more, Echoed its grand rejoicing as of yore; His hands were clasped, his weary head was laid, Upon the tomb where the White Maiden prayed: Where the child's love first dawned, his soul first spoke, The old man's heart there throbbed its last and broke. The grave cathedral that had nursed his youth, Had helped his dreaming, and had taught him truth, Had seen his boyish grief and baby tears, And watched the sorrows and the joys of years, Had lit his fame and hope with sacred rays, And consecrated sad and happy days-- Had blessed his happiness, and soothed his pain, Now took her faithful servant home again.
He rests in peace: some travellers mention yet An organist whose name they all forget. He has a holier and a nobler fame By poor men's hearths, who love and bless the name Of a kind friend; and in low tones to-day, Speak tenderly of him who passed away. Too poor to help the daughter of their friend, They grieved to see the little pittance end; To see her toil and strive with cheerful heart, To bear the lonely orphan's struggling part; They grieved to see her go at last alone To English kinsmen she had never known: And here she came; the foreign girl soon found Welcome, and love, and plenty all around, And here she pays it back with earnest will, By well-taught housewife watchfulness and skill; Deep in her heart she holds her father's name, And tenderly and proudly keeps his fame; And while she works with thrifty Belgian care, Past dreams of childhood float upon the air; Some strange old chant, or solemn Latin hymn, That echoed through the old cathedral dim, When as a little child each day she went To kneel and pray by an old tomb in Ghent.
VERSE: THE ANGEL OF DEATH
Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath, Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes?
How many a tranquil soul has passed away, Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim, To the eternal splendour of the day; And many a troubled heart still calls for him.
Spirits too tender for the battle here Have turned from life, its hopes, its fears, its charms; And children, shuddering at a world so drear, Have smiling passed away into his arms.
He whom thou fearest will, to ease its pain, Lay his cold hand upon thy aching heart: Will soothe the terrors of thy troubled brain, And bid the shadow of earth's grief depart.
He will give back what neither time, nor might, Nor passionate prayer, nor longing hope restore. (Dear as to long blind eyes recovered sight,) He will give back those who are gone before.
Oh, what were life, if life were all? Thine eyes Are blinded by their tears, or thou wouldst see Thy treasures wait thee in the far-off skies, And Death, thy friend, will give them all to thee.
VERSE: A DREAM
All yesterday I was spinning, Sitting alone in the sun; And the dream that I spun was so lengthy, It lasted till day was done.
I heeded not cloud or shadow That flitted over the hill, Or the humming-bees, or the swallows, Or the trickling of the rill.
I took the threads for my spinning, All of blue summer air, And a flickering ray of sunlight Was woven in here and there.
The shadows grew longer and longer, The evening wind passed by, And the purple splendour of sunset Was flooding the western sky.
But I could not leave my spinning, For so fair my dream had grown. I heeded not, hour by hour, How the silent day had flown.
At last the grey shadows fell round me, And the night came dark and chill, And I rose and ran down the valley, And left it all on the hill.
I went up the hill this morning To the place where my spinning lay-- There was nothing but glistening dewdrops Remained of my dream to-day.
VERSE: THE PRESENT
Do not crouch to-day, and worship The old Past, whose life is fled, Hush your voice to tender reverence; Crowned he lies, but cold and dead: For the Present reigns our monarch, With an added weight of hours; Honour her, for she is mighty! Honour her, for she is ours!
See the shadows of his heroes Girt around her cloudy throne; Every day the ranks are strengthened By great hearts to him unknown; Noble things the great Past promised, Holy dreams, both strange and new; But the Present shall fulfil them, What he promised, she shall do.
She inherits all his treasures, She is heir to all his fame, And the light that lightens round her Is the lustre of his name; She is wise with all his wisdom, Living on his grave she stands, On her brow she bears his laurels, And his harvest in her hands.
Coward, can she reign and conquer If we thus her glory dim? Let us fight for her as nobly As our fathers fought for him. God, who crowns the dying ages, Bids her rule, and us obey-- Bids us cast our lives before her, Bids us serve the great To-day.
VERSE: CHANGES
Mourn, O rejoicing heart! The hours are flying; Each one some treasure takes, Each one some blossom breaks, And leaves it dying; The chill dark night draws near, Thy sun will soon depart, And leave thee sighing; Then mourn, rejoicing heart, The hours are flying!
Rejoice, O grieving heart! The hours fly fast; With each some sorrow dies, With each some shadow flies, Until at last The red dawn in the east Bids weary night depart, And pain is past. Rejoice then, grieving heart, The hours fly fast!
VERSE: STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY
Strive; yet I do not promise The prize you dream of to-day Will not fade when you think to grasp it, And melt in your hand away; But another and holier treasure, You would now perchance disdain, Will come when your toil is over, And pay you for all your pain.
Wait; yet I do not tell you The hour you long for now, Will not come with its radiance vanished, And a shadow upon its brow; Yet far through the misty future, With a crown of starry light, An hour of joy you know not Is winging her silent flight.
Pray; though the gift you ask for May never comfort your fears, May never repay your pleading, Yet pray, and with hopeful tears; An answer, not that you long for, But diviner, will come one day, Your eyes are too dim to see it, Yet strive, and wait, and pray.
VERSE: A LAMENT FOR THE SUMMER
Moan, oh ye Autumn Winds! Summer has fled, The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die; The Lily's gracious head All low must lie, Because the gentle Summer now is dead.
Grieve, oh ye Autumn Winds! Summer lies low; The rose's trembling leaves will soon be shed, For she that loved her so, Alas, is dead! And one by one her loving children go.
Wail, oh ye Autumn Winds! She lives no more, The gentle Summer, with her balmy breath, Still sweeter than before When nearer death, And brighter every day the smile she wore!
Mourn, mourn, oh Autumn Winds, Lament and mourn; How many half-blown buds must close and die; Hopes with the Summer born All faded lie, And leave us desolate and Earth forlorn!
VERSE: THE UNKNOWN GRAVE
No name to bid us know Who rests below, No word of death or birth, Only the grass's wave, Over a mound of earth, Over a nameless grave.
Did this poor wandering heart In pain depart? Longing, but all too late, For the calm home again, Where patient watchers wait, And still will wait in vain.
Did mourners come in scorn, And thus forlorn, Leave him, with grief and shame. To silence and decay, And hide the tarnished name Of the unconscious clay?
It may be from his side His loved ones died, And last of some bright band, (Together now once more,) He sought his home, the land Where they had gone before.
No matter--limes have made As cool a shade, And lingering breezes pass As tenderly and slow, As if beneath the grass A monarch slept below.
No grief, though loud and deep, Could stir that sleep; And earth and heaven tell Of rest that shall not cease, Where the cold world's farewell Fades into endless peace.
VERSE: GIVE ME THY HEART
With echoing steps the worshippers Departed one by one; The organ's pealing voice was stilled, The vesper hymn was done; The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air, One lamp alone with trembling ray, Told of the Presence there!
In the dark church she knelt alone; Her tears were falling fast; "Help, Lord," she cried, "the shades of death Upon my soul are cast! Have I not shunned the path of sin, And chosen the better part?" What voice came through the sacred air?-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"
"Have I not laid before Thy shrine My wealth, oh Lord?" she cried; "Have I kept aught of gems or gold, To minister to pride? Have I not bade youth's joys retire, And vain delights depart?"-- But sad and tender was the voice-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"
"Have I not, Lord, gone day by day Where Thy poor children dwell; And carried help, and gold, and food? Oh Lord, Thou knowest it well! From many a house, from many a soul, My hand bids care depart:"-- More sad, more tender, was the voice-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"
"Have I not worn my strength away With fast and penance sore? Have I not watched and wept?" she cried; "Did Thy dear Saints do more? Have I not gained Thy grace, oh Lord, And won in Heaven my part?"-- It echoed louder in her soul-- "My child, give me thy Heart!"
"For I have loved thee with a love No mortal heart can show; A love so deep, my Saints in heaven Its depths can never know: When pierced and wounded on the Cross, Man's sin and doom were mine, I loved thee with undying love, Immortal and divine!
"I love thee ere the skies were spread; My soul bears all thy pains; To gain thy love my sacred Heart In earthly shrines remains: Vain are thy offerings, vain thy sighs, Without one gift divine, Give it, my child, thy Heart to me, And it shall rest in mine!"
In awe she listened, and the shade Passed from her soul away; In low and trembling voice she cried-- "Lord, help me to obey! Break Thou the chains of earth, oh Lord, That bind and hold my heart; Let it be Thine, and Thine alone, Let none with Thee have part.
"Send down, oh Lord, Thy sacred fire! Consume and cleanse the sin That lingers still within its depths: Let heavenly love begin. That sacred flame Thy Saints have known, Kindle, oh Lord, in me, Thou above all the rest for ever, And all the rest in Thee."
The blessing fell upon her soul; Her angel by her side Knew that the hour of peace was come; Her soul was purified: The shadows fell from roof and arch, Dim was the incensed air-- But Peace went with her as she left The sacred Presence there!
VERSE: THE WAYSIDE INN
A little past the village The Inn stood, low and white; Green shady trees behind it, And an orchard on the right; Where over the green paling The red-cheeked apples hung, As if to watch how wearily The sign-board creaked and swung.
The heavy-laden branches, Over the road hung low, Reflected fruit or blossom From the wayside well below; Where children, drawing water, Looked up and paused to see, Amid the apple-branches, A purple Judas Tree.
The road stretched winding onward For many a weary mile-- So dusty foot-sore wanderers Would pause and rest awhile; And panting horses halted, And travellers loved to tell The quiet of the wayside inn, The orchard, and the well.
Here Maurice dwelt; and often The sunburnt boy would stand Gazing upon the distance, And shading with his hand His eyes, while watching vainly For travellers, who might need His aid to loose the bridle, And tend the weary steed.
And once (the boy remembered That morning, many a day-- The dew lay on the hawthorn, The bird sang on the spray) A train of horsemen, nobler Than he had seen before, Up from the distance galloped, And halted at the door.
Upon a milk-white pony, Fit for a faery queen, Was the loveliest little damsel His eyes had ever seen: A serving-man was holding The leading rein, to guide The pony and its mistress, Who cantered by his side.
Her sunny ringlets round her A golden cloud had made, While her large hat was keeping Her calm blue eyes in shade; One hand held fast the silken reins To keep her steed in check, The other pulled his tangled mane, Or stroked his glossy neck.
And as the boy brought water, And loosed the rein, he heard The sweetest voice that thanked him In one low gentle word; She turned her blue eyes from him, Looked up, and smiled to see The hanging purple blossoms Upon the Judas Tree;
And showed it with a gesture, Half pleading, half command, Till he broke the fairest blossom, And laid it in her hand; And she tied it to her saddle With a ribbon from her hair, While her happy laugh rang gaily, Like silver on the air.
But the champing steeds were rested-- The horsemen now spurred on, And down the dusty highway They vanished and were gone. Years passed, and many a traveller Paused at the old inn-door, But the little milk-white pony And the child returned no more.
Years passed, the apple-branches A deeper shadow shed; And many a time the Judas Tree, Blossom and leaf, lay dead; When on the loitering western breeze Came the bells' merry sound, And flowery arches rose, and flags And banners waved around.
Maurice stood there expectant: The bridal train would stay Some moments at the inn-door, The eager watchers say; They come--the cloud of dust draws near-- 'Mid all the state and pride, He only sees the golden hair And blue eyes of the bride.
The same, yet, ah, still fairer; He knew the face once more That bent above the pony's neck Years past at that inn-door: Her shy and smiling eyes looked round, Unconscious of the place, Unconscious of the eager gaze He fixed upon her face.
He plucked a blossom from the tree-- The Judas Tree--and cast Its purple fragrance towards the Bride, A message from the Past. The signal came, the horses plunged-- Once more she smiled around: The purple blossom in the dust Lay trampled on the ground.
Again the slow years fleeted, Their passage only known By the height the Passion-flower Around the porch had grown; And many a passing traveller Paused at the old inn-door, But the bride, so fair and blooming, The bride returned no more.
One winter morning, Maurice, Watching the branches bare, Rustling and waving dimly In the grey and misty air, Saw blazoned on a carriage Once more the well-known shield, The stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Upon a silver field.
He looked--was that pale woman, So grave, so worn, so sad, The child, once young and smiling, The bride, once fair and glad? What grief had dimmed that glory, And brought that dark eclipse Upon her blue eyes' radiance, And paled those trembling lips?
What memory of past sorrow, What stab of present pain, Brought that deep look of anguish, That watched the dismal rain, That watched (with the absent spirit That looks, yet does not see) The dead and leafless branches Upon the Judas Tree.
The slow dark months crept onward Upon their icy way, 'Till April broke in showers And Spring smiled forth in May; Upon the apple-blossoms The sun shone bright again, When slowly up the highway Came a long funeral train.
The bells toiled slowly, sadly, For a noble spirit fled; Slowly, in pomp and honour, They bore the quiet dead. Upon a black-plumed charger One rode, who held a shield, Where stars and azure fleurs-de-lis Shone on a silver field.
'Mid all that homage given To a fluttering heart at rest, Perhaps an honest sorrow Dwelt only in one breast. One by the inn-door standing Watched with fast-dropping tears The long procession passing, And thought of bygone years,
The boyish, silent homage To child and bride unknown, The pitying tender sorrow Kept in his heart alone, Now laid upon the coffin With a purple flower, might be Told to the cold dead sleeper; The rest could only see A fragrant purple blossom, Plucked from a Judas Tree.
VERSE: VOICES OF THE PAST
You wonder that my tears should flow In listening to that simple strain; That those unskilful sounds should fill My soul with joy and pain-- How can you tell what thoughts it stirs Within my heart again?
You wonder why that common phrase, So all unmeaning to your ear, Should stay me in my merriest mood, And thrill my soul to hear-- How can you tell what ancient charm Has made me hold it dear?
You marvel that I turn away From all those flowers so fair and bright, And gaze at this poor herb, till tears Arise and dim my sight-- You cannot tell how every leaf Breathes of a past delight.
You smile to see me turn and speak With one whose converse you despise; You do not see the dreams of old That with his voice arise-- How can you tell what links have made Him sacred in my eyes?
Oh, these are Voices of the Past, Links of a broken chain, Wings that can bear me back to Times Which cannot come again-- Yet God forbid that I should lose The echoes that remain!
VERSE: THE DARK SIDE