Poems (Kimball)/The Monk of La Trappe
THE MONK OF LA TRAPPE.
OH what abounding grace! Of one we readWhose piteous wound in lieu of speech did bleed (As if even Nature's self for him would plead); Who mid his silent brethren silent went Two weary years on prayer and labor bent Unmindful of his misery so he still Shaped every deed and thought to God's dear will; Nor heeded he his bed of knotted straw Whose vigils sore the 3Iaster only saw Nor lookèd forward to the ashen heap Whereon rite dying brethren fell on sleep (Acquainting them or ere they joined the dead With the poor kindred dust whereto they sped); Nor fastings long, nor penance be relaxed Nor less he body for fire body Nor changed a whir the posture, or the face That shone with calm while grew his woe apace. Vain, vain the body's strife to turn aside The purpose of the spirit sanctified! In snatch of wretched sleep his chastened will Restrained the groan, o'ercame the anguish, still;And if perchance that sleep his lips unsealed, Their words of peace his sharpest pangs concealed.
But when the oozing blood for him complained, And half-betrayed his woe the raiment stained, The quick-eyed abbot bade the surgeon speed Whose skilful hand might serve his piteous need. Compassionate the sufferer they bound, While wept the mute attendants standing round As the bared back disclosed the blackening wound. "Thus bind him fast!" the surgeon whispered low; "Not else might he endure the mortal woe!" While they through tears beheld the fearful sight The poor monk raised a face of saintly light; "Not of myself," he said, "but God is here To hold me that I neither shrink nor fear." Then even as Death's own shadow in the cell On him, on all, the wonted silence fell;Only a dripping on the floor of brick As the sharp knife swift pierced to the quick: No shudder felt, no moan repressed, betrayed The spirit fainting or the flesh afraid. "O holy father, he must speak or die!Command these lips to utter forth their cry!" Implored the surgeon, with a whitening cheek. "Speak, O my brother, speak! I bid thee speak!" With streaming eyes the pitying abbot said, As it were his own quivering flesh that bled The ashen lips almost a smile entranced, And from the eye unearthly rapture glanced, As his uplifted face like Stephen's glowed, And from his tongue a heavenly utterance flowed
"My Lord! my Lord! that Thou shouldst raise me up, And suffer me to taste Thy measureless cup Of agony, and in some poor degree Learn how all-measureless Thy Love must be! O wondrous riches by the poorest gained!O heights no rapture ever yet attained!O depths beyond all human thought to reach!Love passing knowledge as it passeth speech!That I should see the glory of Thy Face While yet vile clay in this despisèd place! O all-transcending Love! O matchless grace! Thrice-blest this tongue that may forego its spell Not of these pangs but of that Love to tell!"
Even as he spake back in their arms he fell, And Death's own radiance filled the narrow cell!