The Golden Legend Part 15

Fasting is all very well for those Who have to contend with invisible foes; But I am quite sure it does not agree With a quiet, peaceable man like me, Who am not of that nervous and meagre kind That are always distressed in body and mind!

And at times it really does me good To come down among this brotherhood, Dwelling forever under ground, Silent, contemplative, round and sound; Each one old, and brown with mould, But filled to the lips with the ardor of youth, With the latent power and love of truth, And with virtues fervent and manifold.

I have heard it said, that at Easter-tide, When buds are swelling on every side, And the sap begins to move in the vine.

Then in all the cellars, far and wide, The oldest, as well as the newest, wine Begins to stir itself, and ferment, With a kind of revolt and discontent At being so long in darkness pent, And fain would burst from its sombre tun To bask on the hillside in the sun; As in the bosom of us poor friars, The tumult of half-subdued desires For the world that we have left behind Disturbs at times all peace of mind!

And now that we have lived through Lent, My duty it is, as often before, To open awhile the prison-door, And give these restless spirits vent.

Now here is a cask that stands alone, And has stood a hundred years or more, Its beard of cobwebs, long and h.o.a.r, Trailing and sweeping along the floor, Like Barbarossa, who sits in his cave, Taciturn, sombre, sedate, and grave, Till his beard has grown through the table of stone!

It is of the quick and not of the dead!

In its veins the blood is hot and red, And a heart still beats in those ribs of oak That time may have tamed, but has not broke; It comes from Bacharach on the Rhine, Is one of the three best kinds of wine, And costs some hundred florins the ohm; But that I do not consider dear, When I remember that every year Four b.u.t.ts are sent to the Pope of Rome.

And whenever a goblet thereof I drain, The old rhyme keeps running in my brain:

At Bacharach on the Rhine, At Hochheim on the Main, And at Wurzburg on the Stein, Grow the three best kinds of wine!

They are all good wines, and better far Than those of the Neckar, or those of the Ahr In particular, Wurzburg well may boast Of its blessed wine of the Holy Ghost, Which of all wines I like the most.

This I shall draw for the Abbot's drinking, Who seems to be much of my way of thinking.

(_Fills a flagon._)

Ah! how the streamlet laughs and sings!

What a delicious fragrance springs From the deep flagon, while it fills, As of hyacinths and daffodils!

Between this cask and the Abbot's lips Many have been the sips and slips; Many have been the draughts of wine, On their way to his, that have stopped at mine; And many a time my soul has hankered For a deep draught out of his silver tankard, When it should have been busy with other affairs, Less with its longings and more with its prayers.

But now there is no such awkward condition, No danger of death and eternal perdition; So here's to the Abbot and Brothers all, Who dwell in this convent of Peter and Paul!

(_He drinks._)

O cordial delicious! O soother of pain!

It flashes like suns.h.i.+ne into my brain!

A benison rest on the Bishop who sends Such a fudder of wine as this to his friends!

And now a flagon for such as may ask A draught from the n.o.ble Bacharach cask, And I will be gone, though I know full well The cellar's a cheerfuller place than the cell.

Behold where he stands, all sound and good, Brown and old in his oaken hood; Silent he seems externally As any Carthusian monk may be; But within, what a spirit of deep unrest!

What a seething and simmering in his breast!

As if the heaving of his great heart Would burst his belt of oak apart!

Let me unloose this b.u.t.ton of wood, And quiet a little his turbulent mood.

(_Sets it running._)

See! how its currents gleam and s.h.i.+ne, As if they had caught the purple hues Of autumn sunsets on the Rhine, Descending and mingling with the dews; Or as if the grapes were stained with the blood Of the innocent boy, who, some years back, Was taken and crucified by the Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach; Perdition upon those infidel Jews, In that ancient town of Bacharach!

The beautiful town, that gives us wine With the fragrant odor of Muscadine!

I should deem it wrong to let this pa.s.s Without first touching my lips to the gla.s.s, For here in the midst of the current I stand, Like the stone Pfalz in the midst of the river Taking toll upon either hand, And much more grateful to the giver.

(_He drinks._)

Here, now, is a very inferior kind, Such as in any town you may find, Such as one might imagine would suit The rascal who drank wine out of a boot, And, after all, it was not a crime, For he won thereby Dorf Huffelsheim.

A jolly old toper! who at a pull Could drink a postilion's jack boot full, And ask with a laugh, when that was done, If the fellow had left the other one!

This wine is as good as we can afford To the friars, who sit at the lower board, And cannot distinguish bad from good, And are far better off than if they could, Being rather the rude disciples of beer Than of anything more refined and dear!

(_Fills the other flagon and departs._)

THE SCRIPTORIUM.

FRIAR PACIFICUS _transcribing and illuminating._

_Friar Pacificus_ It is growing dark! Yet one line more, And then my work for today is o'er.

I come again to the name of the Lord!

Ere I that awful name record, That is spoken so lightly among men, Let me pause awhile, and wash my pen; Pure from blemish and blot must it be When it writes that word of mystery!

Thus have I labored on and on, Nearly through the Gospel of John.

Can it be that from the lips Of this same gentle Evangelist, That Christ himself perhaps has kissed, Came the dread Apocalypse!

It has a very awful look, As it stands there at the end of the book, Like the sun in an eclipse.

Ah me! when I think of that vision divine, Think of writing it, line by line, I stand in awe of the terrible curse, Like the trump of doom, in the closing verse!

G.o.d forgive me! if ever I Take aught from the book of that Prophecy, Lest my part too should be taken away From the Book of Life on the Judgment Day.

This is well written, though I say it!

I should not be afraid to display it, In open day, on the selfsame shelf With the writings of St Thecla herself, Or of Theodosius, who of old Wrote the Gospels in letters of gold!

That goodly folio standing yonder, Without a single blot or blunder, Would not bear away the palm from mine, If we should compare them line for line.

There, now, is an initial letter!

King Rene himself never made a better!

Finished down to the leaf and the snail, Down to the eyes on the peac.o.c.k's tail!

And now, as I turn the volume over, And see what lies between cover and cover, What treasures of art these pages hold, All ablaze with crimson and gold, G.o.d forgive me! I seem to feel A certain satisfaction steal Into my heart, and into my brain, As if my talent had not lain Wrapped in a napkin, and all in vain.

Yes, I might almost say to the Lord, Here is a copy of thy Word, Written out with much toil and pain; Take it, O Lord, and let it be As something I have done for thee!

(_He looks from the window._)

How sweet the air is! How fair the scene!

I wish I had as lovely a green To paint my landscapes and my leaves!

How the swallows twitter under the eaves!

There, now, there is one in her nest; I can just catch a glimpse of her head and breast, And will sketch her thus, in her quiet nook, In the margin of my Gospel book.

(_He makes a sketch._)

I can see no more. Through the valley yonder A shower is pa.s.sing; I hear the thunder Mutter its curses in the air, The Devil's own and only prayer!

The dusty road is brown with rain, And speeding on with might and main, Hitherward rides a gallant train.

They do not parley, they cannot wait, But hurry in at the convent gate.

What a fair lady! and beside her What a handsome, graceful, n.o.ble rider!

Now she gives him her hand to alight; They will beg a shelter for the night.

I will go down to the corridor, And try to see that face once more; It will do for the face of some beautiful Saint, Or for one of the Maries I shall paint.

(_Goes out._)

THE CLOISTERS.