The Golden Legend Part 22

_Elsie (coming from her chamber upon the terrace)._ The night is calm and cloudless, And still as still can be, And the stars come forth to listen To the music of the sea.

They gather, and gather, and gather, Until they crowd the sky, And listen, in breathless silence, To the solemn litany.

It begins in rocky caverns, As a voice that chaunts alone To the pedals of the organ In monotonous undertone; And anon from shelving beaches, And shallow sands beyond, In snow-white robes uprising The ghostly choirs respond.

And sadly and unceasing The mournful voice sings on, And the snow-white choirs still answer Christe eleison!

_Prince Henry._ Angel of G.o.d! thy finer sense perceives Celestial and perpetual harmonies!

Thy purer soul, that trembles and believes, Hears the archangel's trumpet in the breeze, And where the forest rolls, or ocean heaves, Cecilia's organ sounding in the seas, And tongues of prophets speaking in the leaves.

But I hear discord only and despair, And whispers as of demons in the air!

AT SEA.

_Il Padrone._ The wind upon our quarter lies, And on before the freshening gale, That fills the snow-white lateen sail, Swiftly our light felucca flies.

Around, the billows burst and foam; They lift her o'er the sunken rock, They beat her sides with many a shock, And then upon their flowing dome They poise her, like a weatherc.o.c.k!

Between us and the western skies The hills of Corsica arise; Eastward, in yonder long, blue line, The summits of the Apennine, And southward, and still far away, Salerno, on its sunny bay.

You cannot see it, where it lies.

_Prince Henry._ Ah, would that never more mine eyes Might see its towers by night or day!

_Elsie._ Behind us, dark and awfully, There comes a cloud out of the sea, That bears the form of a hunted deer, With hide of brown, and hoofs of black, And antlers laid upon its back, And fleeing fast and wild with fear, As if the hounds were on its track!

_Prince Henry._ Lo! while we gaze, it breaks and falls In shapeless ma.s.ses, like the walls Of a burnt city. Broad and red The fires of the descending sun Glare through the windows, and o'erhead, Athwart the vapors, dense and dun, Long shafts of silvery light arise, Like rafters that support the skies!

_Elsie._ See! from its summit the lurid levin Flashes downward without warning, As Lucifer, son of the morning, Fell from the battlements of heaven!

_Il Padrone._ I must entreat you, friends, below!

The angry storm begins to blow, For the weather changes with the moon.

All this morning, until noon, We had baffling winds, and sudden flaws Struck the sea with their cat's-paws.

Only a little hour ago I was whistling to Saint Antonio For a capful of wind to fill our sail, And instead of a breeze he has sent a gale.

Last night I saw St. Elmo's stars, With their glimmering lanterns, all at play On the tops of the masts and the tips of the spars, And I knew we should have foul weather to-day.

Cheerily, my hearties! yo heave ho!

Brail up the mainsail, and let her go As the winds will and Saint Antonio!

Do you see that Livornese felucca, That vessel to the windward yonder, Running with her gunwale under?

I was looking when the wind o'ertook her, She had all sail set, and the only wonder Is that at once the strength of the blast Did not carry away her mast.

She is a galley of the Gran Duca, That, through the fear of the Algerines, Convoys those lazy brigantines, Laden with wine and oil from Lucca.

Now all is ready, high and low; Blow, blow, good Saint Antonio!

Ha! that is the first dash of the rain, With a sprinkle of spray above the rails, Just enough to moisten our sails, And make them ready for the strain.

See how she leaps, as the blasts o'ertake her, And speeds away with a bone in her mouth!

Now keep her head toward the south, And there is no danger of bank or breaker.

With the breeze behind us, on we go; Not too much, good Saint Antonio!

VI.

THE SCHOOL OF SALERNO.

_A traveling Scholastic affixing his Theses to the gate of the College._

_Scholastic._ There, that is my gauntlet, my banner, my s.h.i.+eld, Hung up as a challenge to all the field!

One hundred and twenty-five propositions, Which I will maintain with the sword of the tongue Against all disputants, old and young.

Let us see if doctors or dialecticians Will dare to dispute my definitions, Or attack any one of my learned theses.

Here stand I; the end shall be as G.o.d pleases.

I think I have proved, by profound research The error of all those doctrines so vicious Of the old Areopagite Dionysius, That are making such terrible work in the churches, By Michael the Stammerer sent from the East, And done into Latin by that Scottish beast, Erigena Johannes, who dares to maintain, In the face of the truth, the error infernal, That the universe is and must be eternal; At first laying down, as a fact fundamental, That nothing with G.o.d can be accidental; Then a.s.serting that G.o.d before the creation Could not have existed, because it is plain That, had he existed, he would have created; Which is begging the question that should be debated, And moveth me less to anger than laughter.

All nature, he holds, is a respiration Of the Spirit of G.o.d, who, in breathing, hereafter Will inhale it into his bosom again, So that nothing but G.o.d alone will remain.

And therein he contradicteth himself; For he opens the whole discussion by stating, That G.o.d can only exist in creating.

That question I think I have laid on the shelf!

(_He goes out. Two Doctors come in disputing, and followed by pupils._)

_Doctor Serafino._ I, with the Doctor Seraphic, maintain, That a word which is only conceived in the brain Is a type of eternal Generation; The spoken word is the Incarnation.

_Doctor Cherubino._ What do I care for the Doctor Seraphic, With all his wordy chaffer and traffic?

_Doctor Serafino._ You make but a paltry show of resistance; Universals have no real existence!

_Doctor Cherubino._ Your words are but idle and empty chatter; Ideas are eternally joined to matter!

_Doctor Serafino_. May the Lord have mercy on your position, You wretched, wrangling culler of herbs!

_Doctor Cherubino_. May he send your soul to eternal perdition, For your Treatise on the Irregular Verbs!

(_They rush out fighting. Two Scholars come in._)

_First Scholar_. Monte Ca.s.sino, then, is your College.

What think you of ours here at Salern?

_Second Scholar_. To tell the truth, I arrived so lately, I hardly yet have had time to discern.

So much, at least, I am bound to acknowledge: The air seems healthy, the buildings stately, And on the whole I like it greatly.

_First Scholar_. Yes, the air is sweet; the Calabrian hills Send us down puffs of mountain air; And in summer time the sea-breeze fills With its coolness cloister, and court, and square.

Then at every season of the year There are crowds of guests and travellers here; Pilgrims, and mendicant friars, and traders From the Levant, with figs and wine, And bands of wounded and sick Crusaders, Coming back from Palestine.

_Second Scholar_. And what are the studies you pursue?

What is the course you here go through?

_First Scholar_. The first three years of the college course Are given to Logic alone, as the source Of all that is n.o.ble, and wise, and true.

_Second Scholar_. That seems rather strange, I must confess.

In a Medical School; yet, nevertheless, You doubtless have reasons for that.