Part 5

The story by the midshipman did linger Upon his heart, increasing spectral-like, Awaking sympathy, for he did see In Mary’s life the gathered misery Of many storms which ’gainst her soul did strike, And on a dark and hopeless deep did bring her.

The greatest souls must bear the greatest pain, And sometimes sweetness turns to bitterness, And they who for the heights have been appointed, And by the gods or fates have been anointed, Must know the “Welt-smertz” of the vintage press, And tread it all alone, may be in vain.

Thus did he meditate, and pleasure found In philosophic musings, day by day; But this was unknown to the hardy crew, Who melancholy with their laughter slew, They liked him not, and wished him out of way,-- Well that he had the captain to him bound.

Alas, to him the Chimes of life were lost! And that they ever rang seemed but a dream; The boist’rous elements of sea and air Enveloped him, but little did he care, Since death itself a friend to him did seem,-- Of all things weary, sick and tempest-tost.

But in such hours, whene’er the boy drew near, Whom he did love, a light shone in his eyes, And he did speak to him so tenderly As any parent, which did set him free From painful broodings and the low’ring skies, And mid the deepest darkness brought him cheer.

XLI

’Tis not our aim to tell of voyage long, Of storms and struggles on the wintry seas, Of harbourage and waiting in its course, Mid sheltered inlets upon Ireland’s shores, Though full of hardship, yet it would not please, And we must draw to close our lengthy song.

But I have seen full many a ship depart, Receding into dimness gray and cold, Then slip away, lost in a mighty void;-- And in my musings I have tugged and toyed With memories of friends, or what they told, In words that strayed from an unguarded heart.

For “wise words” are, sometimes, but foolish mumbling, And critic’s arrogance a dark conceit, While silence often has the truest depth; But when the child, which in thy bosom slept, Awakes to speak, a morning light doth greet The restless trav’ler in his painful stumbling.

For there are seas, and many a distant shore, And life is but a journey and a fight, Amid the mighty elements at war;-- But by-and-by the pilgrimage is o’er, And when the peaceful harbor is in sight, Love’s word alone can ope the Palace-door.

XLII

Upon an April morn the ship emerged From fitful seas into the placid pool Of Limerick. The day was clear and calm, And nature drew the breath of spring, its balm Was tempering the breezes, somewhat cool, From western realms, where ocean-billows surged.

The woods and lanes stood draped in flimsy veil, Of hues most delicate; a purple shade Uniting with a tender touch of green, While here and there a golden glint was seen Of butter-cups upon the sloping glade, Or round the ponds, where fleecy clouds did sail.

The skylark, lavishing its melody Upon the freedom of the airy height, Did carol from the lofty blue so long, That not of earth but heaven seemed its song, An Ariel amid the dazzling light, Who thrilled the heart of man with ecstasy.

Sordino harkened to this happy flood Of music, and he saw his servant boy Gaze upward, like the holy men that day, When Christ ascended, for it did allay His sorrows, and like theirs, restore his joy, Since skylark song is in the English blood.

For have not Wordsworth and great Shelley proven That none it stirs just like the British heart, To whom the lark gave immortality, When it inspired them with its poesy, And made their odes the acme of their art, Creations from Apollo’s texture woven?

Sordino’s mind, however, at that hour, Lacked the repose which was on land and sea; And without mood no music doth arrest,-- For by an eagerness he was possest, To know in truth if this the shore might be, Which held his treasure in Cathedral tower.

The fire of his Italian blood awoke, Though he had aged so much upon this journey, He longed to leave the ship, and pass along The river, which was famous made in song, By the immortal Moore, and quaint Mahoney, Whose “Shannon Bells” remain a master-stroke.

Sordino’s wish, to be the first to land, Was granted, and a boat placed to his service, Manned by two sailors and the monk and page, The former only did the oars engage; Sordino, in the stern, sat like a dervise, In musings deep, with head posed on his hand.

No finer vista could itself unfold Than that which burst upon his dreamy eye, As full in view the city did appear, A sight which drew from weary hearts a tear,-- A city glimmering twixt sea and sky, With citadels and shrines, even then, so old.

The sailors left off rowing and gave way To dreaming on the scene, until a spell Possest them all, and silent did they rest Upon the river’s calm, translucent breast, When all at once the clear tone of a bell Came floating softly o’er the tranquil bay.

And then a hymn of praise rose up to heaven From bells whose tongues had notes beyond compare, Sordino’s chimes--when on his ears they fell, He knew such happiness which none can tell, And angel hands to Paradise did bear The soul who for true harmony had striven.

As riveted he sat with empty stare, Even when the soul had from its temple fled; The boy did note it first and gave a cry, It was to him as if his sire did die; The monk did say a prayer o’er the dead, And bid the sailors to the city fare.

They buried him within the hallowed pale Of the Cathedral, that the Chimes might sound Their daily dirge above the master’s grave, Who for their music life and fortune gave, Who with their mystery his fate had bound, A lonely pilgrim through a gloomy vale.

His sacrifice, howe’er, was not in vain, And not amiss his oft belittled quest, His poet’s mantle fell upon the lad, To whom his substance he bequeathéd had,-- A singer he became, among the best, With cadence of the Chimes in lyric strain.

And through his faith the faithless was restored, The quondam monk became a godly priest, Who humbly made the message of the bells, A life of peace where discord often dwells, To tell of this strange man he never ceast, Since he his name and memory adored.

And on the Danube, in her father’s hall, Sat Stella, sorrowing her youth away, The people said, it was for her dead lover; But none did know, and none did e’er discover The secret of her heart, until one day, Her father heard her on Sordino call.

THE SIBYL’S PROPHECY

Amid a vale in Norway stands a church, An ancient building, on historic ground; Its massive walls are white like newfall’n snow, Its lofty spire seems golden in the sun; Around it mighty elm-trees spread their boughs And throw their shadows on the moss-grown graves, And crumbling monuments of centuries, Their music blending with the jack-daw’s cry And with the deep, pure tones of bells, whose sound Reecho ’mong the wooded hills and dells, Awaking fancies of the Saga-age: Of royal bards who sang before their king, That early morning of the fatal day, When Olaf ’neath his standard of the cross Fought pagan armies from those sloping heights, And lost his cause! The altar has been built Above the stone, he leaned against, while flowed His precious life-blood from the cruel wounds; The ground was consecrated by his blood, And when the people understood, and bowed Before the Christ whose saint they slew, they built A chapel on the place of martyrdom, Which in succeeding ages was enlarged, Until a worthy monument stood forth. The ravages of time have wrought their change, But it is ne’ertheless the trysting place Between the valley’s people and their God, A place which links the present to the past-- And heaven’s gates to Norway’s history.

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On parchment, dim with age, a chronicle, Two cycles old, was found within a chest, Amid the iron-coffins in the vaults Below the church, which learnèd parsons read, And then restored it to its resting-place. For some strange reason then the narrow door Was closed up with a solid masonry; But on the people’s lips, from age to age, The legend of that chronicle has passed, And I relate it here as told to me, When but a boy, by my great grandmother.-- One day, the legend says, the parish priest, A young and pious man, came to the church, To read the mass for a departed friend, When he beheld a lonely woman stand Within the shadow of a mountain-ash, Which spread its crown of green and red beside The gate which led into the sacred place. Her hair was black as night, her eyes a deep Of melancholy mystery and dreams; Her chiselled features had the striking charm Of youthful beauty and a mind mature; She was unlike the women of the vale, A stranger whom the priest had never met; And he espied her with a sense of fear. Her sable garb and downcast mien betrayed A state of grief, wherefore the kindly man, Led by a heartfelt sympathy, did ask What great bereavement weighed upon her soul, To which she answered: “Sir, I sorrow not For any one within this hallowed ground, Nor elsewhere for the dead; but for this church I grieve, when I behold how it is doomed To dire destruction”--here she paused and sighed. Now he surmised she was the prophetess, The sibyl whose renown had come to him, And therefore asked that she would further tell About her vision of the things to be. “I see two saplings, of the mountain ash, Grow up, one on each side of this thy church, I also see a breach made in the wall, And when the saplings have grown up to meet-- As mighty trees above the chancel-roof, And when the rent shall grow sufficient wide To be the hiding of a prayer book, Then shall the church sink down and be no more.” Then quote the priest, with frown upon his face: “The house built on a rock can never sink.” “But what is built on sand the floods destroy,” The sibyl said, and quickly went away.

* * * * *

Into the church the parson passed, and knelt Before the altar in an earnest prayer, That God would have great mercy on the soul Of his departed friend whose earthly life Had been cut off in a most tragic way; His widow now bestowing on the church Rich offerings--atonements for his deeds Of sinfulness--outweighing charity; And while he prayed, he seemed to hear the cry And groaning of the soul, from out the fire Of purgatory; supplications strong Ascended to the mercy-seat of God From humble altar-steps, until he felt, The soul was loosed in heaven as on earth. Departing from the church, he looked about For that strange, mournful face; but she was gone. Then came a thought to him, a memory Of something which the baron him had told: How on a summer’s day, while on a hunt, He met a maiden in a forest glen, A slender girl of beauty, such as he Had seldom seen--of Oriental cast, Who weeping told him of his fate most dire, That fire should him consume, a prophesy So terribly fulfilled, and now, perchance, The very same had prophesied to him; This thought possessed his mind, as home he strode, With dark forbodings of impending doom.

* * * * *

It was a Sunday, in the month of June, A morn of most bewitching summer-charms; The air was charged with fragrance of the trees, Of blooming cherry trees, and glist’ning birch, Of mountain ash and tow’ring balsam trees, Of hazel-wood and prickly juniper, Of alder trees along the winding brooks, Of mountain forest of the pungent pine; Of thousand flowers in the meads and vales, An odor sweet--unknown to tropic clime.-- Within God’s acre stood the nodding rose In checkered sunlight, neath the cypress tree, And greeted every breeze that wandered by. Groups of the peasant folk were gathering About the graves, in silent thoughtfulness, And some in sorrow round the recent mounds; The air so calm and mild with fragrance filled, The tolling of the church bells deep and strong, Made this a day of sweet solemnity, Felt by the aged and the youth alike; And while they lingered, lo, the sibyl came. From group to group a whisper passed with awe: “It is the sibyl!” Slowly gathering About her, fearing what she might pronounce, They gazed upon her pale and mournful face. “All is but vanity, all things are nought, All flesh is grass, which flourisheth a while, Then withers, dies, and mingles with the dust,-- Like leaves upon the trees which now are green, And full of juice, but in the autumn turn All sear and yellow, falling to the ground, Whirled by the chilling blast into a heap,-- And thus must ye return to dust some day, And all your work must perish, even so; Yea, even the church must perish on that day, When crowns of mountain ash trees meet above The chancel roof, and when the wall receives Within its rent a common prayer book, Then shall the earth engulf it, and the pride Of generations perish in the deep.” Thus spake the sibyl, and the fearful crowd Displeasure showed by mien and murmuring; One, much perturbed, essayed to argue thus: “Thy words, O woman, are but idle talk; This church, built on such firm and rocky ground, Can never sink, such prophecy is vain;” To which she answered with a sigh subdued: “I’ve told you only what I’ve heard and seen In truest vision of the things to come.” These words were uttered as the last bell rang Its summons to the Mass, obeyed at once By all the people, leaving her alone; And while they prayed, she found a resting-place Within the cooling shadow of the church, And listened to a lark that soared on high, Against the blue of heaven’s temple-dome, And to the chorus ’mongst the sighing trees, But most of all did note the jack-daws cry, That melancholy bird of occult hue; As in a trance she listened to them all, To thousand voices of a summer’s day; But ere the Mass was ended rose and went Along a forest path her solitary way.

* * * * *

Then after many years, upon a morn In early autumn, when the aspen trees Were turning golden, and the starlings sang In darkling flocks from meadows shorn and sear, The pastor took his much accustomed walk, For he did love to be alone and muse Upon the wondrous scenes around his home, And feel great nature’s sweet and changing moods. Although the years had turned his hair to grey, And robbed his steps of elasticity, Still was his spirit quite susceptible To happiness, but more to sorrow’s touch, And on a day like this with feelings mixed, The sadness of the dying summer won, And thoughts of life, its purpose and its end Did occupy his mind as he did meet The sibyl, by a certain turn of road; For twenty years he had not seen her face, And it did startle him to meet her now. She, too, had changed, and silver locks adorned Her noble forehead, but her eyes were keen And piercing, even as in days of youth. And as she stopped to speak with him, he felt Their searching glances knew his very soul. “Long working-day has God ordained for thee”, She said, to which he sadly answered thus: “My life seems but a transitory dream, And all its efforts profitless and vain.” “When thou art dust, thy prayer shall be heard,” She said a-smiling, and passed on her way. He too moved on, while pondering her words,-- The dark enigma of the prophetess.

* * * * *

The Sibyl’s prophecies we thus have heard, And their fulfilment now we will relate, Which have their place in ages afterwards.-- The priest as well as prophetess were gone, And so were generations after them, Half hidden by the dread oblivion; The prophecy forgotten;--but a few Had heard it as an old tradition vague, A fable only, to which none gave heed, Though twain ash saplings grew from year to year, And saw at least two generations pass, Before their branches met above the church; A breach also was creeping from the ground Up through the side-wall’s massive masonry, Increasing with the changes of the years, Two things which did recall the sibyl’s lore, And led the people to cut down the trees, To fill the rent and hide it from man’s view. Again they felt assured that all was well, But from the roots new shoots began to grow And unmolested through full many years.

* * * * *

For ages had the river sung its song, A-blending with the church bells’ melody; May be it was the charm of liquid chimes, Which drew the river closer year by year, But almost imperceptibly, Until one spring it overflowed its banks, And in a rage, fed by the mountain-streams, Did wear away the distance from the church, And forced its course up to the church-yard wall. A gruesome scene it wrought, as days went by; The coffins in the graves began to show, And bones in sepulchres of old decay; Occasionally came a musty skull A-whirling down the maelstrom of the flood, And now and then a crash and splash was heard, When some tall monument did tumble down, Its name and praise lost in the seething deep, For nought can man achieve but it is doomed, At last, to ruin and oblivion. And mighty trees were undermined and sank With loads of earth, their branches ’mid the stream, Like outstreched arms, imploring heav’n for help. The people also lifted hands in prayer, For night and day they feared the dreadful hour, When--as it seemed--the church must be destroyed. The pastor summoned them to spend a day In penitence and supplication true. They came from far and near both old and young, Yea, even the sick and crippled folk were brought, That all might help to lift one prayer to heaven, A common prayer from their humble hearts, Through him who knelt upon the altar stair, Whose voice had notes of anguish for his church. With tears a penitential psalm was sung, On bended knee; and when again they rose To leave the place, they passed with downcast heads Out through the chancel door, beside the which The old time rent was plainly visible, And where again the mountain-ash had reached Above the roof, and met another’s crown. With fear they listened to the water’s roar, (Now only hundred cubits from the church) And to the moaning of the chilly wind, Which bare the rainclouds o’er the naked fields.

* * * * *

It was the midnight hour, and densely dark, In torrents fell the rain, the thunder rolled, And lurid lightning gleamed across the sky, Its light revealing nature’s misery, And one lone woman groping ’mongst the graves, Who sought the church that she too there might pray, The only one who at the mid-day mass Had absent been, for death had kept her home,-- Her husband struggling with the last grim foe. The struggle being ended, she desired To share in that great prayer of the day. For this she stemmed the terror of the night And spectral fear of sepulchres and shrine; She found the door unlocked and opened it, She entered, crossed herself, and sought a pew, And fervently God’s mercy did implore. Then something strange did happen, for behold, The church became with dazzling light illumed, And stranger still, a crowd of people streamed Through every door, and without footfall sound. A congregation, not of mundane mien, But glorious in countenance and dress, Whose utter silence seemed a breath of praise. They filled the seats, and by the woman sat; But to her touch they were as empty space. Up from the vaults below emerged a band of priests, Arrayed as in the days when each did serve Before the altar of this selfsame church; All knelt; but one ascended to the Host, An aged man, whose picture still adorned The gallery, about whose name there clung The legend of the sibyl’s prophecy. He led them in a supplication strong, Both for the living and the many dead, Whose ashes were imperiled by the flood, And that kind heaven would spare the sacred shrine. Now Kyrie Eleison sang the flock, With hands outstretched toward burning altar lights. While all the ministers exclaimed: Amen! The woman felt such wondrous happiness, She thought that she had died and gone to heaven, Yea, all at once she felt assured of this, For now she saw her husband, and near him Two little ones, departed years ago. She ran with joy to clasp them in her arms, But they did vanish from her fond embrace; Yea, all did vanish, even the heavenly lights, And she stood there alone in darkness gross; The silence, too, was gone, and now the storm, Which raged in all its fury, took its place. A distant rumbling noise was clearly heard, And then a terror-striking thunder-crash; The church did tremble in its very depths; The woman thought the judgment-day had come; Her strength did fail her, and she swooned away.

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