Part 4
Then the young sovereign Lewis and his guests swept glowing in— Lord, liegeman, shaggy baron, gallant knight and paladin, Each with a winsome lady and a wreath of storied days: Dark Rudolph home from Holy War with Lion Richard’s praise; Walter the Falconer, and Franz, the flower of Hesse’s men, Who brought Elizabeth a sword torn from a Saracen; Hellgraf with jewelled glove agleam high in his helmet’s hold,
A glove she gave a beggar once and he bought back with gold. And so the throng came eddying in, and with the splendor went Ripple of silver laughter and of whispered compliment.
The torches flamed and faltered, sending up white whirls of smoke, To hang as twilight in the roof raftered with crookèd oak. Up from the chimney log the notes of many woodlands sang; Quick through the flame the colors of a hundred summers sprang. The blaze threw on the arrased wall a gush of golden light, Where hung Saint Stephen’s shield between two angels in still flight,
Forever moving upward toward the cherubs overhead, Now sinking into shade and now breaking to rosy red.
A swinging door, a spicy smell, and beaming Hugolin With smoking boar’s head lifted high came proudly panting in. And as the sparkling feast went on the board began to stir With talk of knightly valor and the Holy Sepulchre, With prattle of the tidings from Jerusalem and Rome; But sweet Elizabeth, her thoughts were not so far from home. In spite of rosy radiance, in spite of trumpet calls, The Sorrow of the People sent its shadow through the walls.
For sitting there beside her lord a sudden silence came Upon her soul, and all the voices and the horn’s acclaim Died; and the glowing pageant broke and faded into air, And only the faces of the poor whose tables are so bare Pressed in upon her soul that night, pressed in that gala night; Only the toilers’ cheerless homes rose on her inward sight.
And then a graver thought let in a darkness on her heart— A thought of all the feasts they spread of which they have no part— A thought, too, of this splendor on this holy Christmas eve,
A splendor wrung from toiling hands by those that tax and thieve. Of all those fragrant dishes only two would not profane; Only the bread and water there had come of honest gain; These only were not pilfered from the toiler’s lean supply; And these she took with happy hands, but let the rest go by.
And so the table roared away into the winter night, Until the toasts went round the board with laughter at the height. They drank to saints and prophets old, to Peter and Isadore, To Stephen, Vincent, Boniface, and to a dozen more. Then valiant Wolfram in his turn upstarted with a cry:
“Drink to Archangel Michael, that good fighter in the sky, That prince of God that all the hosts of Satan could not tame!” Up to their feet the feasters sprang at that great angel’s name. Clinking their cups from side to side, they made, in the torches’ flare, The sign of the cross with their jewelled cups high flashing in the air.
Now cried the duke: “Not all the saints have felt the wind of death; Come, drink to one who walks the Earth, my wife Elizabeth; And I will pledge her beauty with this water in her cup.” So stooping down he caught and swung her golden goblet up,
And tasted—paused—tasted again, for lo, it was rare wine! More strangely sweet than any juice pressed from an earthly vine. “Ho, varlet, from what pipe this wine and from what cellar shelf?” “From good Saint Kilian’s well, sire, and I drew it up myself!” She flushed; the table stared; the duke looked foolishly about, The hall so still they heard far bells breaking the night without.
Then up spake Helias the Seer: “I saw the water poured— Saw, too, an angel bending by our lady at the board, Pouring with courteous gesture from a flagon of red wine,
Then fading in the brightness of the firelight’s dancing shine.” She heard in glad amaze: he wins God’s favor unawares Who, self-forgot in brother love, a brother’s burden bears.
* * * * *
And this seven centuries ago. And now her sainted feet Are on the fields of Paradise, making its old paths sweet. And there she has her fill of love where the Friendly City is, Her warm hands white with labor in God’s busy palaces.
The Joy-Maker
Time’s touch can dim our sorrows and destroy, But only Art can turn them into joy.
The Face of Life
_An Adaptation._
Life cried to Youth, “I bear the cryptic key: I grant you two desires, but only two. What gifts have I to crown and comfort you?” Youth answered, “I am blind and I would see; Open my eyes and let me look on thee.” ‘Twas done: he saw the face of Life, and then Cried brokenly, “Now make me blind again!”
The Story of Bacchus
_A Grecian legend_
What boy with his face to the Ægean Sea Went threading his way over mountain and plain, With a spirit as glad as a blossoming tree? It was Bacchus, now pure as the wild white rain, But soon to be worshiped by mortals, with passion and sorrow and pain.
He had found a vine on the forest ways, And a skeleton bird in a rocky pass To shelter the leaf from the sunny rays; But it grew till he sheltered them both, alas, In the hollow skull of a lion, and then in the skull of an ass!
As he lay at noon in a mossy rest, The vine had shot up all a-tremble with light. Now he bears it home—(O the doom unguessed!)
On, on, while the hills swing away out of sight— Till the misty far mountains rise dimly, and pass in a silent flight.
At last when his garden was furrowed, he found That the bones were all twined by the lusty root; So he planted the whole in the deep-stirred ground, And lightly danced to his Lydian flute, While the leafy depths of the eerie vine purpled with clustering fruit.
Then he made him wine—for it was the grape— And darkened its depths with a perilous spell, And gave it to man with the angel shape, When lo! a wonder and terror befell— Was it a wonder from Heaven—was it a terror from Hell?
For he drinks—and he carols and sings like a bird! And drinking again of the magical glass, He is proud as a lion when passion-stirred! But drinking once more of the liquor, alas, He loses the shape of the angel, and takes on the shape of an ass!
Lost Lands
I mind me once in boyhood when the mist Swirled round me, ash of pearl and amethyst, How, in an unknown, difficult, high place, I pushed the green boughs backward from my face, And with a fire along the blood, a cry, Rode out upon a headland in the sky.
I know not in what world it was—Mirak Or Algol, or some further Zodiac! I looked down on a sea of fog below; Saw strange lands rise, strange waters furl and flow, Breaking on newly lifted reefs and shores— New Africas, new Indies, new Azores— Lands that allured me to illustrious deed, Past Roland’s fame, and all his knightly breed— Fringes of lands no foot had ever found, Where billows climbed and burst without a sound; While further still, on dim untraveled seas, Gleamed lost Atlantis, lost Hesperides.
Poet-Lore
The poet is forever young And speaks the one immortal tongue. To him the wonder never dies, For youth is looking through his eyes. Pale listener at the heart of things, He hears the voices and the wings: He hears the skylark overhead— Hears the far footfalls of the dead.
When the swift Muses seize their child, Then God has gladness rich and wild; For when the bard is caught and hurled, A splendor breaks across the world. His song distils a saving power From foot-worn stone, from wayside flower.
He knows the gospel of the trees, The whispered message of the seas; Finds in some beetle on the road A power to lift the human load; Sees, in some dead leaf dried and curled, The deeper meaning of the world; Hears through the roar of mortal things The God’s immortal whisperings; Sees the world-wonder rise and fall, And knows that Beauty made it all.
He walks the circle of the sun, And sees the bright Powers laugh and run. He feels the motion of the sphere, And builds his song in sacred fear. He finds the faithful witness hid In poppy-head and Pyramid. The Golden Heaven or the Pit— He shakes the music out of it. All things yield up their souls to him From dateless dust to seraphim.
The Hindered Guest
Friar Hilary, of Barbizon, (Rest to his soul where his soul has gone!) Was a man whose life was long perplexed By pious juggles with the text. The logic of St. Thomas’ books Was fastened to his mind with hooks. He knew Tertullian’s work complete— That treatise on the Paraclete. He knew the words Chrysostom hurled In golden thunder on the world; And he could commentate and quote The thirteen books Saint Cyril wrote. The controversies of Jerome, He could recite them, tome by tome.
The friar was tall and spare and spent, Like a cedar of Lebanon bare and bent. His eyes were sunken and burned too bright, Like restless stars in the pit of night.
The friar had built a tower of stone, And dwelt far up in a cell alone; And from the turret, gray in air, He called to God with psalm and prayer, To come as he did to the wise of old— To come as the ancient voice foretold. All day the hawk swung overhead; All day the holy page was read.
One bleak December he fasted sore, That Christ might knock at his low door— Lord Jesus shine across the floor. For he was hungry to be fed With the holy love, with the mystic bread. Yet Christ came not to sup with him, And Christmas Eve fell chilly and dim. “Where art Thou?” he would cry and hark, While echoes answered in the dark.... Where was the Lord—was he afar, Throned calmly on the central star?
Now suddenly there came a cry As of a mortal like to die. Up sprang the friar, the doors of oak He flung asunder at a stroke. Down stair by stair his quick feet flew, Startling the owls that the rafters knew, Breaking the webs that barred the way, Crushing the mosses that fear the day. Into the pitiless street he ran To find a stricken fellow-man, And carry him in upon his breast, With many a halt on the stairs for rest.
He washed the feet and stroked the hair, And for the once forgot his prayer. He gave him wine that the Pope had sent For some great day of the Sacrament; And looking up, behold, at his side Was bending also the Crucified! He had come at last to the lonesome place, And standing there with a courteous grace, Threw sainted light on the friar’s face.
And then the Master said: “My son, My children on my errands run; And when you flung the psalter by And hurried to a brother’s cry, You turned at last your rusty key, And left the door ajar for Me.”
Supplication
Give me heart-touch with all that live, And strength to speak my word; But if that is denied me, give The strength to live unheard.
[THE END]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors. 2. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.