But something else waxed real as they waned faint,
— They came about me, angel, martyr, saint,
Earth lay a mist below heaven's sunlit hill,
And nameless heights were rising round it still.
Was it agony or rapture? Can I say?
I only know that when it passed away
It was as if a sea had rolled between
Me and mine old self that once had been;
For even Marco's praises seemed to pall,
And Carlo's sneering touched me not at all.
Next day the cardinal would speak with me,
And full of gentleness and praise was he;
Only he bade me always recollect
I had the Church's interest to protect,
The times were perilous, and such as I
Were raised by God, the Church to fortify.
I thanked him humbly. (I was simple then,
And dreamed "the Church" meant struggling souls of men.)
And so I went on preaching, and I thought
The cardinal would thank God when I brought
Some heretics (who long had strayed away)
Back to God's holy house on holy day.
It was so sweet to see sad faces cheer,
And have sad hearts to one's own heart draw near,
That kept me glad and humble in those days,
So that I marvelled not at no more praise,
And when the mandate came "to preach no more,"
The brethren said it should have come before!
'Twas like the day of death — when words are new
From the dear lips that speak no more to you,
And you can't realize the days to come,
The unbroken silence in the empty home.
There is no sorrow while the eyes are dim
The dead stays with you while you weep for him.
But slowly the cold misery o'er me stole,
The iron pierced my flesh and reached my soul.
Could God have really given me words to say,
And yet have taken chance of speech away?
Have shown me how the world was hungering sore,
Only to let me feed it nevermore?
There was a pang of self, but that soon spent;
Let others speak, and I should be content
To sit in silence. But to know the pain
Of all those weary hearts, and how a chain
Binds them to steadfast love, and yet to sit
And leave them shut in hell, by fearing it!
I cannot paint as Angelico could,
I cannot join the anthem, or I would,
And if to plead the suffering of the poor
I with the brothers go from door to door,
Fra Marco, with his soft, persuasive tones,
Wins bread and coin where I get gibes and stones.
I could do this one thing, but may no more,
And I am changed from what I was before,
I who have told of love, seem full of spite.
I cannot bear, I stand upon my right;
I am a useless and an evil man,
God planned my life, and let men spoil His plan.
But, hush, what is the utmost that I would,
To give my life to God is all I could;
And this may be the way He wills to take,
This daily death may be for God's own sake;
He gave and took. So let my soul be still —
He has a thousand sons to do His will.
I would have given my body to the flame,
He asks instead my genius and my fame;
I would have let my youth and bloom depart,
He asks for broken nerves and failing heart.
(Our own dear Master did not grudge the day,
His weakness asked the cup might pass away.)
There is a sweet dream sometimes comforts me,
In some far land, a crowded fane I see,
And one, with eyes which watch a dawning day,
Is saying more than all I tried to say;
And I am in the throng which hangs above,
Where man translates one word of God's great love.
But then I dwell on heaven's sunlit hill,
Gazing on heights that rise above me still.
And I come down no more to chilling praise,
To sneers, to wearing out of empty days,
But rest, rejoicing in the power I've won,
To go on learning, though my crying's done.
And then the dawn comes whitely to my cell,
The brothers wake me, and I say, "'Tis well,"
And rise and turn to my slow, idle day.
(Letters of rose are graven well on grey;
He lightly spares a bud who holds the flower;
A moment's patience sometimes saves an hour.)
