« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce,
sunk, Confronted with the hero's look; Twice fell his eye, his accents shook; Like man by prodigy amazed, Upon the King the Abbot gazed ; Then o'er his pallid features glance Convulsions of ecstatic trance; His breathing came more thick and
fast, And from his pale blue eyes were
cast Strange rays of wild and wandering
light; Uprise his locks of silver wbite, Flushed is his brow; through every
vein In azure tide the currents strain, And undistinguished accents broke The awful silence ere he spoke. “ De Bruce! I rose with purpose
dread To speak my curse upon thy head, And give thee as an outcast o'er To him who burns to shed thy
gore; But, like the Midianite of old, Who stood on Zophim, heaven-con
trolled, I feel within mine aged breast A power that will not be repressed. It prompts my voice, it swells my
veins, It burns, it maddens, it constrains !De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow Hath at God's altar slain thy foe: O’ermastered yet by high behest, I bless thee, and thou shalt be
blessed!" He spoke, and o'er the astonished
throng Was silence, awful, deep, and long. Again that light has fired his eye, Again his form swells bold and high, The broken voice of age is gone, 'Tis vigorous mianhood's lofty
“ Thrice vanquished on the battle
plain, Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or
ta’en, A hunted wanderer on the wild, On foreign shores a man exiled, Disowned, deserted, and distressed, I bless thee, and thou shalt be
blessed! Blessed in the hall and in the field, Under the mantle as the shield. Avenger of thy country's shame, Restorer of her injured fame, Blessed in thy sceptre and thy
sword, De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful
Lord. Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, What lengthened honors wait thy
name! In distant ages, sire to son Shall tell thy tale of freedom won, And teach his infants, in the use Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce. Go, then, triumphant! sweep along Thy course, the theme of many a
song! The Power, whose dictates swell my
breast, Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed!”
VISION OF BELSHAZZAR.
The king was on his throne,
The satraps thronged the hall; A thousand bright lamps shone
O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold,
In Judah deemed divine, Jehovah's vessels hold
The godless heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall,
The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall,
And wrote as if on sand : The fingers of a man;
A solitary hand Along the letters ran,
And traced them like a wand.
The monarch saw, and shook,
And bade no more rejoice: All bloodless waxed his look,
And tremulous his voice.
“ Who cometh in such haste ?"
“Sir Pavon, late, I hight, Of all the land around
The stanchest, mightiest knight.
“My foes — they dared not face
Beset me at my back
They follow on my track.
" Let the men of lore appear,
The wisest of the earth,
Which mar our royal mirth.”
But here they have no skill; And the unknown letters stood,
Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age
Are wise and deep in lore; But now they were not sage,
They saw, — but knew no more.
A stranger and a youth,
He saw that writing's truth.
The prophecy in view: He read it on that night,
The morrow proved it true. “ Belshazzar's grave is made,
His kingdom passed away, He in the balance weighed,
Is light and worthless clay.
His canopy, the stone;
“ Now wilt thou let me in,
Or shall I burst the door?” The grating bolts ground back; the
knight Lay swooning in his gore. As children, half afraid,
Draw near a crushed wasp, Look, touch, and twitch away
Their hands, then lightly grasp, – Him to their spital soon
The summoned brethren bore, And searched his wounds. He woke,
And roundly cursed and swore.
The younger friar stopped his ears;
The elder chid. He flung His gummy plasters at his mouth,
And bade him hold his tongue.
But, faint and weak, when, left
Upon his couch alone, He viewed the valley, framed with
in His window's carven stone,
SIR PAVON AND ST. PAVON.
St. MARK's hushed abbey heard,
Through prayers, a roar and din; A brawling voice did shout,
“Knave shaveling, let me in!”
He learned anew to weep,
All as he lay along, To see the smoke-wreaths from his
towers Climb up the clouds among. The abbot came to bring
A balsam to his guest, On soft feet tutored long
To break no sufferer's rest,
The cagèd porter peeped,
All Buttering, through the grate, Like birits that hear a mew.
A knight was at the gate.
His left hand reined his steed,
Still smoking from the ford; Ais crimson right, that dangled,
clutched Half of his broken sword.
And heard his sobbing heart
Drink deep in draughts of woe; Then“ Benedicite, my son,”
He breathed, in murmurs low. Right sharply turned the knight
Upon the unwelcome spy;
His broken plume flapped low;
His charger's mane with mud Was clogged; he wavered in his seat, His mail dropped drops of blood.
“(I was a new-breeched boy,
And sat upon her knee, Less mindful of the story than
Of cates she gave to me.)
The quiet autumn siin
Looks on a landscape grim. He crossed himself before the priest,
And speechless gazed on him. His brow was large and grand,
And meet for governing; The beauty of his holiness
Did crown him like a king.
“But then I thought a flood
Came down to clrown them all, And that they only now in stone
Stood on the minster wall,
His mien was high, yet mild;
His deep and reverent eye
His stainless earthy shell
Was worn so pure and thin, That
through the callow angel
showed, Half-hatched that stirred within.
“Or painted in the glass
Upon the window high,
breaks the sea
And breathed and walked no more Upon the muddy earth, to do
The deeds they did of yore, “ When still the sick were healed
Where e'en their shadows fell; But here is one that's living yet,
And he shall make me well.” The patient priest benign
His watch beside him kept, Until he dropped his burning lids,
And like an infant slept.
The cloisters when he paced
At eve, the brethren said, E'en then a shimmering halo dawned
Around his saintly head.
If forth he went, the street
Became a hallowed aisle. Men knelt; and children ran to seek
The blessing of his smile;
And mothers on each side came out,
And stood at every door,
The weanlings forth before.
Men sickening unto death Their sweet infectious health give
out, And heal them with their breath,
IIis white and thriving soul,
In heavenly pastures fed, Still somewhat of its innocence
On all around him shed.
Some weary weeks were spent
In tossing and in pain, Before the knight's huge frame was
The day he left his bed,
“ To prop him up,” he said.) Soon jangling then he stamped,
Amazed with all he saw, Through cell and through refectory,
With little grace or awe. Unbidden at the board
He sat, a mouthful took, And shot it spattering through his
beard, Sprang up, and cursed the cook. If some bowed friar passed by,
He chucked him 'neath the chin And cried, “What cheer?”
• Dost thou find That hair-cloth pricks the skin por
Sir Pavon's scarce-stanched wounds
He bound with fearless skill, Who lay and watched him, meek
and mute, And let him work his will,
While in his fevered brain
Thus mused his fancy quaint: "My grandam told me once of saints,
And this is, sure, a saint!
Unto a noiseless pace
He strove to curb his stride,
* “Henry de Joyeuse, Comte du Bouchage, Frere puiné du Duc de Joveuse, tué à coutras. Un jour qu'il passoit à Puis à quatre heures du matin, près du Convent des Capucins, après avoir passei la nuit en débauche. il s'imagina que les Anges chantoient Matines dans le Couvent. Frappé de cette idée, il se tit Capucin, s0118 le noin de Frère-Ange.' Cette anecdote est tirée des Votes sur l'Henriade." - Mé. moires ile Sully. Livre Dixieme, Xote 67.
The censer waved around
Its ini-ty, sweet perfume, Av over him the minster great
Came with its awful gloom.
“ Observing every rule
Of generous chivalry;
A champion leal in me. “What gallantly I won
In war, I did not hoard,
With neighbors round my board."
But heard a hunt sweep by,
And to the door did leap,
“Thy neighbors, son ? The serfs
For miles who tilled thy ground?” “ Tush, father, nay! The high-born
knights For many a league around.
“ They were my brethren sworn,
In battle and in sport. 'Twere wondrous shame, should one
“Clean have I made my shrift,"'
He said; and so he ceased, And bore a blithe and guileless cheer,
That sore perplexed the priest.
“Such novice ne'er I saw !
Sweet Mary be my speed! For sure the sorer is my task,
The sorer is his need.” He gazed upon him long,
With pondering, pitying eyes, As the leech on the sick whose hid
den ail All herbs and drugs defies; And, “ Hath thy heart might,” at
last, “ to-night, He to Sir Pavon said, “When all men sleep, thy vigil to
keep, In the crypt among the dead ? “Night hath many a tongue, her
black hours among, Less false than the tongues of Day, While Mercy the prayer hath full
leisure to hear, Of all who wake to pray. The inute swart queen hides many
a sin, But oft to the sinner's heart Remorse, with the tale, she sends
With words both soft and keen,
He searched his breast within. Still said he, “So I sinned not,"
Or, “ That is, sure, no sin."
* The regular form of amouncement that a single combat had begun between knights.
† “ To smyte a wounded man that may not stonde, God deffende me from such a shame." “ Wyt thon well, Syr Gawayn, I wyl neuer emite a fellyd knight." -- Prose Romance of King Arthur.