Poems (Procter)/The Story of the Faithful Soul

by Adelaide Anne Procter

THE STORY OF THE FAITHFUL SOUL FOUNDED ON AN OLD FRENCH LEGEND.

HE fettered Spirits linger In purgatorial pain,With penal fires effacing Their last faint earthly stain,Which Life's imperfect sorrow Had tried to cleanse in vain.

Yet, on each feast of Mary Their sorrow finds release,For the Great Archangel Michael Comes down and bids it cease;And the name of these brief respites Is called "Our Lady's Peace."

Yet once—so runs the Legend— When the Archangel came,And all these holy spirits Rejoiced at Mary's name,One voice alone was wailing, Still wailing on the same.

And though a great Te Deum The happy echoes woke,This one discordant wailing Through the sweet voices broke:So when St. Michael questioned, Thus the poor spirit spoke:—

"I am not cold or thankless, Although I still complain;I prize Our Lady's blessing, Although it comes in vainTo still my bitter anguish, Or quench my ceaseless pain.

"On earth a heart that loved me Still lives and mourns me there,And the shadow of his anguish Is more than I can bear;All the torment that I suffer Is the thought of his despair.

"The evening of my bridal Death took my Life away;Not all Love's passionate pleading Could gain an hour's delay.And he I left has suffered A whole year since that day.

"If I could only see him,— If I could only goAnd speak one word of comfort And solace,—then I knowHe would endure with patience, And strive against his woe."

Thus the Archangel answered:— "Your time of pain is brief,And soon the peace of Heaven Will give you full relief;Yet if his earthly comfort So much outweighs your grief,

"Then through a special mercy I offer you this grace,—You may seek him who mourns you, And look upon his face,And speak to him of comfort For one short minute's space.

"But when that time is ended, Return here, and remainA thousand years in torment, A thousand years in pain:Thus dearly must you purchase The comfort he will gain."

****

The Lime-trees' shade at evening Is spreading broad and wide;Beneath their fragrant arches, Pace slowly, side by side,In low and tender converse, A Bridegroom and his Bride.

The night is calm and stilly, No other sound is thereExcept their happy voices:— What is that cold bleak airThat passes through the Lime-trees And stirs the Bridegroom's hair?

While one low cry of anguish, Like the last dying wailOf some dumb, hunted creature, Is borne upon the gale:—Why does the Bridegroom shudder And turn so deathly pale?

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Near Purgatory's entrance The radiant Angels wait;It was the great St. Michael Who closed that gloomy gate,When the poor wandering spirit Came back to meet her fate.

"Pass on," thus spoke the Angel: "Heaven's joy is deep and vast;Pass on, pass on, poor Spirit, For Heaven is yours at last;In that one minute's anguish Your thousand years have passed."