The Catholic World Volume Iii Part 6

Uprising slowly from the ground, With short and frequent breath.

In aimless circles, round and round, The Baron tottereth With trailing feet, a mourner meet For house of death.

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Till, pausing by the shrine of Moan, He said, the while he wept, "Here, Hermit, here mine only one, When all the castle slept, As maiden knight, o'er armor bright, His first watch kept.

"This is the casque that first he wore, And this his virgin shield.

This lance to his first tilt he bore, With this first took the field-- How light, how lache to that huge ash He now doth wield!

"This blade hath levelled at a blow The she-wolf in her den.

With this red falchion he laid low The slippery Saracen.

G.o.d! will that hand, so near his brand, Ne'er strike again?

"Frown not on him, ye men of old.

Whose glorious race is run; Frown not on him, my fathers bold.

Though many the field ye won: His name and los may mate with yours Though but begun!

"Receive him, ye departed brave, Unlock the gates of light.

And range yourselves about his grave To hail a brother knight.

Who never erred in deed or word Against the right!

"But is he dead and is he sped Withouten scathe or scar?

Why, Hermit, he hath often bled From sword and scimetar-- I've seen him ride, wounds gaping wide, From war to war.

"And hath a silent, viewless thing Laid danger's darling low, When youth and hope were on the wing And life in morning glow?

Not yonder worm in winter's storm Perisheth so!

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"Oh, Hermit, thou hast heard, I ween, Of trances long and deep, But, Hermit, hast thou ever seen That grim and stony sleep.

And canst thou tell how long a spell Such slumbers keep?

"Oh, be there naught to break the charm, To thaw this icy chain; Has Mother Church no word to warm These freezing lips again; Be holy prayer and balsams rare Alike in vain? ... .

"A curse on thy ill-omened head; Man, bid me not despair; Churl, say not that a Knight is dead When he can couch his spear; When he can ride--Monk, thou hast lied.

He lives, I swear!

"Up from that bier! Boy, to thy feet!

Know'st not thy father's voice?

Thou ne'er hast disobeyed ... is't meet A sire should summon thrice?

By these grey hairs, by these salt tears, Awake, arise!

"Ho, lover, to thy ladye flee, Dig deep the crimson spur; Sleep not 'twixt this lean monk and me When thou shouldst kneel to her!

Oh 'tis a sin, Christine to win And thou not stir!

"Ho, laggard, hear yon trumpet's note Go sounding to the skies, The lists are set, the banners float.

Yon loud-mouthed herald cries, 'Ride, gallant knights, Christine invites.

Herself the prize!'

"Ho, craven, shun'st thou the melee, When she expects thy brand To prove to-day in fair tourney A t.i.tle to her hand?

Up, dullard base, or by the ma.s.s I'll make thee stand!" ... .

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Thrice strove he then to wrench apart Those fingers from the spear.

Thrice strove to sever from the heart The hand that rested there.

Thrice strove in vain with frantic strain That shook the bier.

Thrice with the dead the living strove, Their armor rang a peal, The sleeping knight he would not move Although the sire did reel: That stately corse defied all force, Stubborn as steel.

"Ay, dead, dead, dead!" the Baron cried; "Dear Hermit, I did rave.

O were we sleeping side by side! . .

Good monk, I penance crave For all I said .... Ay, he is dead, Pray heaven to save!

"Betake thee to thy crucifix, And let me while I may Rain kisses on these frozen cheeks Before they know decay.

Leave me to weep and watch and keep The worm at bay.

"Thou wilt not spare thy prayers, I trust; But name not now the grave-- I'll watch him to the very dust! ....

So, Hermit, to thy cave.

Whilst here I cling lest creeping thing Insult the brave!"

Why starts the Hermit to his feet, why springs he to the bier, Why calleth he on Jesu sweet, Staying the starting tear.

What whispereth he half trustfully And half in fear?

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"Sir Knight, thy ring hath razed his flesh-- 'Twas in thy frenzy done; Lo, from his wrist how fast and fresh The blood-drops trickling run; Heaven yet may wake, for Mary's sake, Thy warrior son.

"Heap ashes on thy head, Sir Knight, In sackcloth gird thee well, The shrine of Moan must blaze in light, The morning ma.s.s must swell; Arouse from sleep the castle keep, Sound every bell!"

They come, pale maid and mailed man They throng into the hall, The watcher from the barbican, The warder from the wall.

And she apart, with breaking heart, The last of all.

"__Introibo! _Introibo!_"

The morning ma.s.s begins; "_Mea culpa! mea culpa!_"

Forgive us all our sins; And the rapt Hermit chaunts with streaming eyes, That seem to enter Paradise, "_Gloria! Gloria!_"

The shrine of Moan had never known That gladdest of all hymns.

II.

The fair-haired maiden standeth apart In the chapel gloom, with breaking heart.

But a smile broke over her face as she said, "The draught was well measured, I ween; He liveth, thank Allah, but not to wed His beautiful Christine.

No lance hath Miolan couched to-day: Let the bride for the bridegroom watch, and pray.

Till the lists shall hear the shriek Of the Dauphin's daughter borne away By the Knight of Pilate's Peak."