Poems (Jackson)/A Thirteenth-Century Parable
A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY PARABLE.
HEN good Saint Louis reigned in France as king,And William, Bishop of Paris, ministeringTo all the churches, kept them pure and glad,There came one day a learned man, who hadJourneyed from distant provinces to findHis Bishop and unload his burdened mind.Entering the Bishop's presence, he beganTo speak: but sobs choked all his voice; tears ranLike rain from out his eyes, and no words cameTo tell his grief. Then said the Bishop:"ShameNot thyself so deeply, Master: no manSo sins but that the gracious Jesus can Forgive an hundred thousand fold more guiltThan his, and cleanse it by his dear blood spilt,""I tell you, Sire," the Master said, "I mustForever weep: I am accursed. I trustNot in the holy altar-sacrament,As taught to us; I cannot but dissentFrom all the Church doth say of it: and yetI know my doubts are but temptations setBy Satan's self, to sink my soul to hell.O Sire, I am a wretched Infidel."Then said the gentle Bishop:Then said the gentle Bishop:"This one thingTell me, O honest Master, do they bringThee pleasure, these dark doubts?"Thee pleasure, these dark doubts?""O, no! my Sire,"The weeping Master said: "they burn like fireWithin my bones."Within my bones.""And could thy lips to speakThy doubts be bought by gold? And would'st thou seekTo shake a brother's faith?"To shake a brother's faith?""I, Sire!" exclaimedThe Master. "I! I would be bruised and maimed,And torn from limb to limb, ere I would saySuch words."Such words."Then said the Bishop, smiling: "LayAside now for a space thy grief and fear,And listen. Soon my meaning will appear,Though it be strangely hid at first belowMy words.My words.Thou know'st that war is raging now Between the King of England and of France;Thou know'st that of our castles greatest chanceOf loss has La Rochelle, there in Poitou,Lying so near the border. If to youThe King had given La Rochelle to hold,And unto me—no less true man and bold,Perhaps—the Castle of Laon to keep,Far in the heart of France, where I might sleepAll day, all night, unharmed, if so I chose,—So safe beyond the reach of all our foesLies Laon,—when the war is ended, whoOught from the King to have the most thanks?Ought from the King to have the most thanks?YouWho La Rochelle had saved by bloody fights,Or I, who spent in Laon peaceful nights?"In faith, Sire, I, who guarded La Rochelle!"The wondering Master cried.The wondering Master cried."So, then, I tellThee," said the Bishop, in most gentle tone,"My heart is like the Castle of Laon.Temptations, doubts, cannot my soul assail.Therefore, I say that thou, who dost prevailAgainst such foes of Satan's mustering,Art four times pleasing to the Heavenly King,Where I am once; and thy good fortress, kept,Shall win thee glory such as saints have weptTo win! Go, joyful! Put thy sorrow by.Thou art far dearer to the Lord than I."Scarce dared the Master trust such words as these;But silent, grateful, fell upon his kneesUntil the Bishop blessed him. Then he wentAway in solemn wonder and content. They lie in graves, the saints who knew this tale,The King, the Bishop, and the Seneschal,And he who doubted,—rest their souls in peace!—And even mention of their names men ceaseTo make. But, knowing all, as they must know,Of God, who roam his universes through,Untrammelled spirits, they could tell to menTo-day no deeper truth than was told then,To cheer and comfort him who fighteth wellTo save a heart besieged like La Rochelle.