Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13)
Page 65
Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, 45
To the convent portals came
All the blind and halt and lame,
All the beggars of the street,
For their daily dole of food
Delat them by the brotherhood; 50
And their almoner was he
Who upon his bended knee,
Rapt in silent ecstasy
Of divinest self-surrender,
Saw the Vision and the Splendor. 55
Deep distress and hesitation
Mingled with his adoration;
Should he go or should he stay?
Should he leave the poor to wait
Hungry at the convent gate, 60
Till the Vision passed away?
Should he slight his radiant guest,
Slight this visitant celestial,
For a crowd of ragged, bestial
Beggars at the convent gate? 65
Would the Vision there remain?
Would the Vision come again?
Then a voice within his breast
Whispered, audible and clear
As if to the outward ear: 70
“Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest!”
Straightway to his feet he started,
And with longing look intent
On the Blessed Vision bent, 75
Slowly from his cell departed,
Slowly on his errand went.
At the gate the poor were waiting,
Looking through the iron grating,
With that terror in the eye 80
That is only seen in those
Who amid their wants and woes
Hear the sound of doors that close,
And of feet that pass them by;
Grown familiar with disfavor, 85
Grown familiar with the savor
Of the bread by which men die!
But to-day, they know not why,
Like the gate of Paradise
Seemed the convent gate to rise, 90
Like a sacrament divine
Seemed to them the bread and wine.
In his heart the Monk was praying,
Thinking of the homeless poor,
What they suffer and endure; 95
What we see not, what we see;
And the inward voice was saying:
“Whatsoever thing thou doest
To the least of mine and lowest,
That thou doest unto me!” 100
Unto me! but had the Vision
Come to him in beggar’s clothing,
Come a mendicant imploring,
Would he then have knelt adoring,
Or have listened with derision, 105
And have turned away with loathing?
Thus his conscience put the question,
Full of troublesome suggestion,
As at length, with hurried pace,
Towards his cell he turned his face, 110
And beheld the convent bright
With a supernatural light,
Like a luminous cloud expanding
Over floor and wall and ceiling.
But he paused with awe-struck feeling 115
At the threshold of his door,
For the Vision still was standing
As he left it there before,
When the convent bell appalling,
From its belfry calling, calling, 120
Summoned him to feed the poor.
Through the long hour intervening
It had waited his return,
And he felt his bosom burn,
Comprehending all the meaning, 125
When the Blessed Vision said,
“Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!”
The Theologian’s Tale: Interlude
ALL praised the Legend more or less;
Some liked the moral, some the verse;
Some thought it better, and some worse
Than other legends of the past;
Until, with ill-concealed distress 5
At all their cavilling, at last
The Theologian gravely said:
“The Spanish proverb, then, is right;
Consult your friends on what you do,
And one will say that it is white, 10
And others say that it is red.”
And “Amen!” quoth the Spanish Jew.
“Six stories told! We must have seven,
A cluster like the Pleiades,
And lo! it happens, as with these, 15
That one is missing from our heaven.
Where is the Landlord? Bring him here;
Let the Lost Pleiad reappear.”
Thus the Sicilian cried, and went
Forthwith to seek his missing star, 20
But did not find him in the bar,
A place that landlords most frequent,
Nor yet beside the kitchen fire,
Nor up the stairs, nor in the hall;
It was in vain to ask or call, 25
There were no tidings of the Squire.
So he came back with downcast head,
Exclaiming: “Well, our bashful host
Hath surely given up the ghost.
Another proverb says the dead 30
Can tell no tales; and that is true.
It follows, then, that one of you
Must tell a story in his stead.
You must,” he to the Student said,
“Who know so many of the best, 35
And tell them better than the rest.”
Straight, by these flattering words beguiled,
The Student, happy as a child
When he is called a little man,
Assumed the double task imposed, 40
And without more ado unclosed
His smiling lips, and thus began.
The Student’s Second Tale
The Baron of St. Castine
BARON CASTINE of St. Castine
Has left his château in the Pyrenees,
And sailed across the western seas.
When he went away from his fair demesne
The birds were building, the woods were green; 5
And now the winds of winter blow
Round the turrets of the old château,
The birds are silent and unseen,
The leaves lie dead in the ravine,
And the Pyrenees are white with snow. 10
His father, lonely, old, and gray,
Sits by the fireside day by day,
Thinking ever one thought of care;
Through the southern windows, narrow and tall,
The sun shines into the ancient hall, 15
And makes a glory round his hair.
The house-dog, stretched beneath his chair,
Groans in his sleep, as if in pain,
Then wakes, and yawns, and sleeps again,
So silent is it everywhere, — 20
So silent you can hear the mouse
Run and rummage along the beams
Behind the wainscot of the wall;
And the old man rouses from his dreams,
And wanders restless through the house, 25
As if he heard strange voices call.
His footsteps echo along the floor
Of a distant passage, and pause awhile;
He is standing by an open door
Looking long, with a sad, sweet smile, 30
Into the room of his absent son.
There is the bed on which he lay,
There are the pictures bright and gray,
Horses and hounds and sun-lit seas;
There are his powder-flask and gun, 35
And his hunting-knives in shape of a fan;
The chair by the window where he sat,
With the clouded tiger-skin for a mat,
Looking out on the Pyrenees,
Looking out on Mount Marboré 40
And the Seven Valleys of Lavedan.
Ah me! he turns away and sighs;
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There is a mist before his eyes.
At night, whatever the weather be,
Wind or rain or starry heaven, 45
Just as the clock is striking seven,
Those who look from the windows see
The village Curate, with lantern and maid,
Come through the gateway from the park
And cross the courtyard damp and dark, — 50
A ring of light in a ring of shade.
And now at the old man’s side he stands,
His voice is cheery, his heart expands,
He gossips pleasantly, by the blaze
Of the fire of fagots, about old days, 55
And Cardinal Mazarin and the Fronde,
And the Cardinal’s nieces fair and fond,
And what they did, and what they said,
When they heard his Eminence was dead.
And after a pause the old man says, 60
His mind still coming back again
To the one sad thought that haunts his brain,
“Are there any tidings from over sea?
Ah, why has that wild boy gone from me?”
And the Curate answers, looking down, 65
Harmless and docile as a lamb,
“Young blood! young blood! It must so be!”
And draws from the pocket of his gown
A handkerchief like an oriflamb,
And wipes his spectacles, and they play 70
Their little game of lansquenet
In silence for an hour or so,
Till the clock at nine strikes loud and clear
From the village lying asleep below,
And across the courtyard, into the dark 75
of the winding pathway in the park,
Curate and lantern disappear,
And darkness reigns in the old château.
The ship has come back from over sea,
She has been signalled from below, 80
And into the harbor of Bordeaux
She sails with her gallant company.
But among them is nowhere seen
The brave young Baron of St. Castine;
He hath tarried behind, I ween, 85
In the beautiful land of Acadie!
And the father paces to and fro
Through the chambers of the old château,
Waiting, waiting to hear the hum
Of wheels on the road that runs below, 90
Of servants hurrying here and there,
The voice in the courtyard, the step on the stair,
Waiting for some one who doth not come!
But letters there are, which the old man reads
To the Curate, when he comes at night, 95
Word by word, as an acolyte
Repeats his prayers and tells his beads;
Letters full of the rolling sea,
Full of a young man’s joy to be
Abroad in the world, alone and free; 100
Full of adventures and wonderful scenes
Of hunting the deer through forests vast
In the royal grant of Pierre du Gast;
Of nights in the tents of the Tarratines;
Of Madocawando the Indian chief, 105
And his daughters, glorious as queens,
And beautiful beyond belief;
And so soft the tones of their native tongue,
The words are not spoken, they are sung!
And the Curate listens, and smiling says: 110
“Ah yes, dear friend! in our young days
We should have liked to hunt the deer
All day amid those forest scenes,
And to sleep in the tents of the Tarratines;
But now it is better sitting here 115
Within four walls, and without the fear
Of losing our hearts to Indian queens;
For man is fire and woman is tow,
And the Somebody comes and begins to blow.”
Then a gleam of distrust and vague surmise 120
Shines in the father’s gentle eyes,
As fire-light on a window-pane
Glimmers and vanishes again;
But naught he answers; he only sighs,
And for a moment bows his head; 125
Then, as their custom is, they play
Their little game of lansquenet,
And another day is with the dead.
Another day, and many a day
And many a week and month depart, 130
When a fatal letter wings its way
Across the sea, like a bird of prey,
And strikes and tears the old man’s heart.
Lo! the young Baron of St. Castine,
Swift as the wind is, and as wild, 135
Has married a dusky Tarratine,
Has married Madocawando’s child!
The letter drops from the father’s hand;
Though the sinews of his heart are wrung,
He utters no cry, he breathes no prayer, 140
No malediction falls from his tongue;
But his stately figure, erect and grand,
Bends and sinks like a column of sand
In the whirlwind of his great despair.
Dying, yes, dying! His latest breath 145
Of parley at the door of death
Is a blessing on his wayward son.
Lower and lower on his breast
Sinks his gray head; he is at rest;
No longer he waits for any one. 150
For many a year the old château
Lies tenantless and desolate;
Rank grasses in the courtyard grow,
About its gables caws the crow;
Only the porter at the gate 155
Is left to guard it, and to wait
The coming of the rightful heir;
No other life or sound is there;
No more the Curate comes at night,
No more is seen the unsteady light, 160
Threading the alleys of the park;
The windows of the hall are dark,
The chambers dreary, cold, and bare!
At length, at last, when the winter is past,
And birds are building, and woods are green, 165
With flying skirts is the Curate seen
Speeding along the woodland way,
Humming gayly, “No day is so long
But it comes at last to vesper-song.”
He stops at the porter’s lodge to say 170
That at last the Baron of St. Castine
Is coming home with his Indian queen,
Is coming without a week’s delay;
And all the house must be swept and clean,
And all things set in good array! 175
And the solemn porter shakes his head;
And the answer he makes is: “Lackaday!
We will see, as the blind man said!”
Alert since first the day began,
The cock upon the village church 180
Looks northward from his airy perch,
As if beyond the ken of man
To see the ships come sailing on,
And pass the Isle of Oléron,
And pass the Tower of Cordouan. 185
In the church below is cold in clay
The heart that would have leaped for joy —
O tender heart of truth and trust! —
To see the coming of that day;
In the church below the lips are dust; 190
Dust are the hands, and dust the feet
That would have been so swift to meet
The coming of that wayward boy.
At night the front of the old château
Is a blaze of light above and below; 195
There’s a sound of wheels and hoofs in the street,
A cracking of whips, and scamper of feet,
Bells are ringing, and horns are blown,
And the Baron hath come again to his own.
The Curate is waiting in the hall, 200
Most
eager and alive of all
To welcome the Baron and Baroness;
But his mind is full of vague distress,
For he hath read in Jesuit books
Of those children of the wilderness, 205
And now, good, simple man! he looks
To see a painted savage stride
Into the room, with shoulders bare,
And eagle feathers in her hair,
And around her a robe of panther’s hide. 210
Instead, he beholds with secret shame
A form of beauty undefined,
A loveliness without a name,
Not of degree, but more of kind;
Nor bold nor shy, nor short nor tall, 215
But a new mingling of them all.
Yes, beautiful beyond belief,
Transfigured and transfused, he sees
The lady of the Pyrenees,
The daughter of the Indian chief. 220
Beneath the shadow of her hair
The gold-bronze color of the skin
Seems lighted by a fire within,
As when a burst of sunlight shines
Beneath a sombre grove of pines, — 225
A dusky splendor in the air.
The two small hands, that now are pressed
In his, seem made to be caressed,
They lie so warm and soft and still,
Like birds half hidden in a nest, 230
Trustful, and innocent of ill.
And ah! he cannot believe his ears
When her melodious voice he hears
Speaking his native Gascon tongue;
The words she utters seem to be 235
Part of some poem of Goudouli,
They are not spoken, they are sung!
And the Baron smiles, and says, “You see,
I told you but the simple truth;
Ah, you may trust the eyes of youth!” 240
Down in the village day by day
The people gossip in their way,
And stared to see the Baroness pass
On Sunday morning to early mass;
And when she kneeleth down to pray, 245
They wonder, and whisper together, and say
“Surely this is no heathen lass!”
And in course of time they learn to bless
The Baron and the Baroness.
And in course of time the Curate learns 250
A secret so dreadful, that by turns
He is ice and fire, he freezes and burns.
The Baron at confession hath said,
That though this woman be his wife,
He hath wed her as the Indians wed, 255