4497189Poems — The Lay of the Brown RosaryElizabeth Barrett Barrett
THE LAY OF THE BROWN ROSARY.
The Lay of the Brown Rosary.
"Go thy ways. I did not think to have shed one tear for thee, but thou hast made me water my plants spite of my heart. " Witch of Edmonton.
FIRST PART.
"Onora, Onora "—her mother is calling— She sits at the lattice and hears the dew falling Drop after drop from the sycamores laden With dew as with blossom—and calls home the maiden— "Night cometh, Onora."
She looks down the garden-walk caverned with trees, To the limes at the end, where the green arbour is— "Some sweet thought or other may keep where it found her, While, forgot or unseen in the dreamlight around her, Night cometh—Onora!"
She looks up the forest whose alleys shoot on Like the mute minster-aisles, when the anthem is done, And the choristers, sitting with faces aslant, Feel the silence to consecrate more than the chant— "Onora, Onora!"
And forward she looketh across the brown heath— "Onora, art coming?"—What is it she seeth? Nought, nought, but the grey border-stone that is wist To dilate and assume a wild shape in the mist— "My daughter!"—Then over
The casement she leaneth, and as she doth so, She is 'ware of her little son playing below: "Now where is Onora?"—He hung down his head And spake not, then answering blushed scarlet-red,— "At the tryst with her lover."
But his mother was wroth. In a sternness quoth she, "As thou play'st at the ball, art thou playing with me? When we know that her lover to battle is gone, And the saints know above that she loveth but one, And will ne'er wed another?"
Then the boy wept aloud. 'Twas a fair sight, yet sad, To see the tears run down the sweet blooms he had: He stamped with his foot, said—"The saints know I lied, Because truth that is wicked, is fittest to hide! Must I utter it, mother?"
In his vehement childhood he hurried within, And knelt at her feet as in prayer against sin; But a child at a prayer never sobbeth as he— "Oh; she sits with the nun of the brown rosarie, At nights in the ruin!
"The old convent ruin, the ivy rots off, Where the owl hoots by day, and the toad is sun-proof; Where no singing-birds build; and the trees gaunt and grey, As in stormy sea-coasts, appear blasted one way— But is this the wind's doing?
"A nun in the east wall was buried alive, Who mocked at the priest when he called her to shrive,_ And shrieked such a curse as the stone took her breath, The old abbess fell backward and swooned unto death With an Ave half-spoken.
"I tried once to pass it, myself and my hound, Till, as fearing the lash, down he shivered to ground! A brave hound, my mother! a brave hound, ye wot! And the wolf thought the same, with his fangs at her throat, In the pass of the Brocken.
"At dawn and at eve, mother, who sitteth there, With the brown rosarie never used for a prayer? Stoop low, mother, low! If we went there to see, What an ugly great hole in that east wall must be At dawn and at even!
"Who meet there, my mother, at dawn and at even? Who meet by that wall, never looking to Heaven? O sweetest my sister, what doeth with thee, The ghost of a nun with a brown rosarie, And a face turned from Heaven?
"St. Agnes o'erwatcheth my dreams; and erewhile I have felt through mine eyelids, the warmth of her smile— But last night, as a sadness like pity came o'er her, She whispered—'Say two prayers at dawn for Onora! The Tempted is sinning.'"
Onora, Onora! they heard her not coming— Not a step on the grass, not a voice through the gloaming; But her mother looked up, and she stood on the floor, Fair and still as the moonlight that came there before, And a smile just beginning!
It touches her lips—hut it dares not arise To the height of the mystical sphere of her eyes: And the large musing eyes, neither joyous nor sorry, Sing on like the angels in separate glory, Between clouds of amber.
For the hair droops in clouds amber-coloured, till stirred Into gold by the gesture that comes with a word; While—O soft!—her speaking is so interwound Of the dim and the sweet, 'tis a twilight of sound, And floats through the chamber.
"Since thou shrivest my brother, fair mother,' said she, "I count on thy priesthood for marrying of me! And I know by the hills, that the battle is done— That my lover rides on—will he here with the sun, 'Neath the eyes that behold thee!"
Her mother sate silent—too tender, I wis, Of the smile her dead father smiled dying to kiss; But the boy started up, pale with tears, passion-wrought, "O wicked fair sister, the hills utter nought! If he cometh, who told thee?"
"I know by the hills," she resumed calm and clear, "By the beauty upon them that he is anear! Did they ever look so since he bade me adieu? Oh, love in the waking, sweet brother, is true As St. Agnes in sleeping."
Half-ashamed and half-softened, the boy did not speak, And the blush met the lashes which fell on his cheek: She bowed down to kiss him—Dear saints, did he see Or feel on her bosom the brown rosarie— That he shrank away weeping?
PART SECOND.
A bed—Onora sleeping. Angels, but not near.
First Angel. Must we stand so far, and she So very fair? Second Angel. As bodies be. First Angel. And she so mild? Second Angel. As spirits, when They meeken, not to God but men. First Angel. And she so young,—that I who bring Good dreams for saintly children, might Mistake that small soft face to-night, And fetch her such a blessed thing, That, at her waking, she would weep For childhood lost anew in sleep! How hath she sinned? Second Angel. In bartering love— God's love—for man's! First Angel. We may-reprove The world for this! not only her! Let me approach, to breathe away This dust o' the heart with holy air. Second Angel. Stand off! She sleeps, and did not pray. First Angel. Did none pray for her? Second Angel. Ay, a child,— Who never, praying, wept before: While, in a mother undefiled, Prayer goeth on in sleep, as true And pauseless as the pulses do. First Angel. Then I approach. Second Angel. It is not WILLED. First Angel. One word: Is she redeemed? Second Angel. No more! The place is filled. [Angels vanish. Evil Spirit in a Nun's garb by the bed. Forbear that dream—forbear that dream! too near to Heaven it leaned. Onora in sleep. Nay, leave me this—but only this! 'tis but a dream, sweet fiend! Evil Spirit. It is a thought. Onora in sleep. A sleeping thought—most innocent of good— It doth the Devil no harm, sweet fiend! it cannot, if it would. I say in it no holy hymn,—I do no holy work; I scarcely hear the sabbath-bell that chimeth from the kirk. Evil Spirit. Forbear that dream—forbear that dream! Onora in sleep. Nay, let me dream at least! That far-off bell, it may be took for viol at a feast— I only walk among the fields, beneath the autumn-sun, With my dead father, hand in hand, as I have often done. Evil Spirit. Forbear that dream—forbear that dream! Onora in sleep. Nay, sweet fiend, let me go— I never more can walk with him, oh, never more but so! For they have tied my father's feet beneath the kirkyard stone,— Oh, deep and straight; oh, very straight! they move at nights alone: And then he calleth through my dreams, he calleth tenderly,— "Come forth, my daughter, my beloved, and walk the fields with me!" Evil Spirit. Forbear that dream, or else disprove its pureness by a sign. Onora in sleep. Speak on, thou shalt be satisfied! my word shall answer thine. I hear a bird which used to sing when I a child was praying; I see the poppies in the corn, I used to sport away in!— What shall I do—tread down the dew, and pull the blossoms blowing? Or clap my wicked hands to fright the finches from the rowen? Evil Spirit. Thou shalt do something harder still! Stand up where thou dost stand, Among the fields of Dreamland, with thy father, hand in hand, And clear and slow, repeat the vow—declare its cause and kind, Which, not to break in sleep or wake, thou bearest on thy mind. Onora in sleep. I hear a vow of wicked kind, a vow for mournful cause: I vowed it deep, I vowed it strong—the spirits laughed applause! The spirits trailed, along the pines, low laughter like a breeze, While, high atween their swinging tops, the stars appeared to freeze. Evil Spirit. More calm and free,—speak out to me, why such a vow was made. Onora in sleep. Because that God decreed my death, and I shrank back afraid! Have patience, O dead father mine! I did not fear to die;— I wish I were a young dead child, and had thy company! I wish I lay beside thy feet, a buried three-year child, And wearing only a kiss of thine, upon my lips that smiled! The linden-tree that covers thee, might, so, have shadowed twain— For death itself I did not fear—'tis love that makes the pain. Love feareth death! I was no child—I was betrothed that day; I wore a troth-kiss on my lips, I could not give away! How could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone, And feel mine own Betrothed go by—alas! no more mine own,— Go leading by, in wedding pomp, some lovely lady brave, With cheeks that blushed as red as rose, while mine were cold in grave? How could I bear to sit in Heaven, on e'er so high a throne, And hear him say to her—to her! that else he loveth none? Though e'er so high I sate above, though e'er so low he spake, As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might take— That her's, forsooth, are heavenly eyes—ah, me! while very dim Some heavenly eyes (indeed of Heaven!) would darken down to him. Evil Spirit. Who told thee thou wert called to death? Onora in sleep. I sate all night beside thee— The grey owl on the ruined wall shut both his eyes to hide thee; And ever he flapped his heavy wing, all brokenly and weak, And the long grass waved against the sky, around his gasping beak! I sate beside thee all the night, while the moonlight lay forlorn, Strewn round us like a dead world's shroud, in ghastly fragments torn! And through the night, and through the hush, and over the flapping wing, We heard, beside the Heavenly Gate, the angels murmuring:— We heard them say, "Put day to day, and count the days to seven, And God will draw Onora up the golden stairs of Heaven: And yet He grants the evil ones, that purpose to defer, For if she has no need of Him, He has no need of her"— Evil Spirit. Speak out to me—speak bold and free. Onora in sleep. And then I heard thee say,— "I count upon my rosarie brown, the hours thou hast to stay! Yet God permits us evil ones to put by that decree, Since if thou hast no need of Him, He has no need of thee— And if thou wilt forego the sight of angels, verily Thy true love gazing on thy face, shall guess what angels be— Nor bride shall pass, save thee" . . . Alas!—my father's hand's acold— The meadows seem . . . Evil Spirit. Forbear the dream, or let the vow be told! Onora in sleep. I vowed upon thy rosarie brown, this string of antique beads, By charnal lichens overgrown, and dank among the weeds— This rosarie brown which is thine own,—lost soul of buried nun,— Who, lost by vow, wouldst render now all souls alike undone; I vowed upon thy rosarie brown,—and, till such vow should break, A pledge always of living days, 'twas hung around my neck— I vowed to thee on rosarie (Dead father, look not so!), I would not thank God in my weal, nor seek God in my woe. Evil Spirit. And canst thou prove . . . Onora in sleep. O love—my love! I felt him near again! I saw his steed on mountain-head, I heard it on the plain! Was this no weal for me to feel?—is greater weal than this? Yet when he came, I wept his name—and the angels heard but his. Evil Spirit. Well done, well done! Onora in sleep. Ay me! the sun . . . the dreamlight 'gins to pine,— Ay me! how dread can look the Dead!—Aroint thee, father mine!
She starteth from slumber, she sitteth upright, And her breath comes in sobs while she stares through the night! There is nought! The great willow, her lattice before, Large-drawn in the moon, lieth calm on the floor; But her hands tremble fast as their pulses, and free From the death-clasp, close over—the brown rosarie.
{{{text}}} THIRD PART.
'Tis a morn for a bridal; the merry bride-bell Rings clear through the green-wood that skirts the chapelle; And the priest at the altar awaiteth the bride, And the sacristans slyly are jesting aside At the work shall be doing.
While down through the wood rides that fair companie, The youths with the courtship, the maids with the glee,— Till the chapel-cross opens to sight, and at once All the maids sigh demurely, and think for the nonce, "And so endeth a wooing!"
And the bride and the bridegroom are leading the way, With his hand on her rein, and a word yet to say: Her dropt eyelids suggest the soft answers beneath,— And the little quick smiles come and go with her breath, When she sigheth or speaketh.
And the tender bride-mother breaks off unaware From an Ave, to think that her daughter is fair,— Till in nearing the chapel, and glancing before, She seeth her little son stand at the door,— Is it play that he seeketh?
Is it play? when his eyes wander innocent-wild, And sublimed with a sadness unfitting a child! He trembles not, weeps not—the passion is done, And calmly he kneels in their midst, with the sun On his head like a glory.
"O fair-featured maids, ye are many!" he cried,— "But, in fairness and vileness, who matcheth the bride? O brave-hearted youths, ye are many! but whom, For the courage and woe, can ye match with the groom, As ye see them before ye?"
Out spake the bride's mother—"The vileness is thine, If thou shame thine own sister, a bride at the shrine!" Out spake the bride's lover—"The vileness be mine, If he shame mine own wife at the hearth or the shrine, And the charge be unproved.
"Bring the charge, prove the charge, brother! speak it aloud— Let thy father and her's hear it deep in his shroud!"— "0 father, thou seest—for dead eyes can see— How she wears on her bosom a brown rosarie, O my father belovèd! "
Then outlaughed the bridegroom, and outlaughed withal Both maidens and youths, by the old chapel-wall— "So she weareth no love-gift, kind brother," quoth he, "She may wear, an she listeth, a brown rosarie, Like a pure-hearted lady! "
Then swept through the chapel, the long bridal train! Though he spake to the bride she replied not again: On, as one in a dream, pale and stately she went, Where the altar-lights burn o'er the great sacrament, Faint with daylight, but steady.
But her brother had passed in between them and her, And calmly knelt down on the high-altar stair— Of an infantine aspect so stern to the view, That the priest could not smile on the child's eyes of blue, As he would for another.
He knelt like a child marble-sculptured and white, That seems kneeling to pray on the tomb of a knight, With a look taken up to each iris of stone From the greatness and death where he kneeleth, but none From the face of a mother.
"In your chapel, O priest, ye have wedded and shriven Fair wives for the hearth, and fair sinners for Heaven! But this fairest my sister, ye think now to wed, Bid her kneel where she standeth, and shrive her instead— O shrive her and wed not!"
In tears, the bride's mother,—"Sir priest, unto thee Would he lie, as he lied to this fair companie!" In wrath, the bride's lover,—"The lie shall be clear! Speak it out, boy! the saints in their niches shall hear— Be the charge proved or said not! "
Then serene in his childhood he lifted his face, And his voice sounded holy and fit for the place— "Look down from your niches, ye still saints, and see How she wears on her bosom a brown rosarie! Is it used for the praying? "
The youths looked aside—to laugh there were a sin— And the maidens' lips trembled with smiles shut within: Quoth the priest—" Thou art wild, pretty boy! Blessed she, Who prefers at her bridal a brown rosarie To a worldly arraying! "
The bridegroom spake low and led onward the bride, And before the high altar they stood side by side: The rite-book is opened, the rite is begun— They have knelt down together to rise up as one— Who laughed by the altar?
The maidens looked forward, the youths looked around,— The bridegroom's eye flashed from his prayer at the sound; And each saw the bride, as if no bride she were, Gazing cold at the priest, without gesture of prayer, As he read from the psalter.
The priest never knew that she did so, but still He felt a power on him, too strong for his will; And whenever the Great Name was there to be read, His voice sank to silence—that could not be said, Or the air could not hold it.
"I have sinned," quoth he, "I have sinned, I wo "— And the tears ran adown his old cheeks at the thought; They dropped fast on the book; hut he read on the same,— And aye was the silence where should he the Name, As the choristers told it.
The rite-book is closed, and the rite being done, They who knelt down together, arise up as one: Fair riseth the bride—Oh, a fair bride is she,— But, for all (think the maidens) that brown rosarie, No saint at her praying!
What aileth the bridegroom? He glares blank and wide— Then suddenly turning, he kisseth the bride— His lip stung her with cold: she glanced upwardly mute: "Mine own wife," he said, and fell stark at her foot In the word he was saying.
They have lifted him up,—but his head sinks away,— And his face showeth bleak in the sunshine, and grey. Leave him now where he lieth—for oh, never more Will he kneel at an altar or stand on a floor! Let his bride gaze upon him!
Long and still was her gaze, while they chafed him there, And breathed in the mouth whose last life had kissed her, But when they stood up—only they! with a start The shriek from her soul struck her pale lips apart— She has lived, and forgone him!
And low on his body she droppeth adown— "Didst call me thine own wife, beloved—thine own? Then take thine own with thee! thy coldness is warm To the world's cold without thee! Come, keep me from harm In a calm of thy teaching! "
She looked in his face earnest long, as in sooth There were hope of an answer,—and then kissed his mouth; And with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly,— "Now, O God, take pity—take pity on me!— God, hear my beseeching? "
She was 'ware of a shadow that crossed where she lay; She was 'ware of a presence that wither'd the day— Wild she sprang to her feet,—"I surrender to thee The broken vow's pledge,—the accursed rosarie,— I am ready for dying!"
She dashed it in scorn to the marble-paved ground, Where it fell mute as snow; and a weird music-sound Crept up, like a chill, up the aisles long and dim,— As the fiends tried to mock at the choristers' hymn, And moaned in the trying.
FOURTH PART.
Onora looketh listlessly adown the garden walk: "I am weary, O my mother, of thy tender talk! I am weary of the trees a-waving to and fro— Of the stedfast skies above, the running brooks below;— All things are the same but I;—only I am dreary; And, mother, of my dreariness, behold me very weary.
"Mother, brother, pull the flowers I planted in the spring And smiled to think I should smile more upon their gathering. The bees will find out other flowers—oh, pull them, dearest mine, And carry them and carry me before St. Agnes' shrine." —Whereat they pulled the summer flowers she planted in the spring, And her and them, all mournfully, to Agnes' shrine did bring.
She looked up to the pictured saint, and gently shook her head— "The picture is too calm for me—too calm for me," she said: "The little flowers we brought with us before it we may lay, For those are used to look at Heaven,—but I must turn away,— Because no sinner under sun can dare or bear to gaze On God's or angel's holiness, except in Jesu's face."
She spoke with passion after pause—"And were it wisely done, If we who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone?— If we whose virtue is so weak, should have a will so strong,— And stand blind on the rocks, to choose the right path from the wrong? To choose perhaps a love-lit hearth, instead of love and Heaven,— A single rose, for a rose-tree, which beareth seven times seven? A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the breast Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best!" Then breaking into tears,—"Dear God," she cried, "and must we see All blissful things depart from us, or ere we go to Thee? We cannot guess Thee in the wood, or hear Thee in the wind? Our cedars must fall round us, ere we see the light behind? Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal, to need Thee on that road; But woe being come, the soul is dumb, that crieth not on 'God.'"
Her mother could not speak for tears; she ever mused thus— "The bees will find out other flowers,—but what is left for us?" But her young brother stayed his sobs, and knelt beside her knee, —"Thou sweetest sister in the world, hast never a word for me?" She passed her hand across his face, she pressed it on his cheek, So tenderly, so tenderly—she needed not to speak.
The wreath which lay on shrine that day, at vespers bloomed no more— The woman fair who placed it there, had died an hour before! Both perished mute, for lack of root, earth's nourishment to reach;— O reader, breathe (the ballad saith), some sweetness out of each!
