Poems (Blagden)/The church of the gesù
THE CHURCH OF THE GESÙ.
Oft 'mid the work-day's crowd and heat, The fret and fever, toil and strife, The hollow tumult of the street, I turn to breathe a purer life, To where some temple's sheltering dome, Lies hushed and lone, in marble gloom.
Perchance, all still, my footsteps fall, Arouse the echoes, and they call From arch to arch, with whispering sound, As soft I tread the holy ground. At times an altar glistens far Amid the darkness—tapers dim Mysterious move, and then I hear Some murmured rite, some vesper hymn, Steal on the silence, low and clear; Or some confession's soothed despair Melt from its contrite woe to prayer! Or standing near some porphyry shrine, I catch a pale retreating line, A fading glory, parting gleam, From some seraphic-pictured dream, Wherein the painter's art hath given To earth the hues and glow of heaven.
'Twas thus this morn (as from the gay And lightsome throng I turned away), 'Mid golden splendour, azure gloom, I sought Ignazio's knightly tomb, Where sleeps the loyal heart who gave Its chivalry to Faith—whose grave, More potent than the Cæsar's throne, Sways with its rule the triple crown!
I crossed the threshold's draperied fold And paused—for, 'stead of silence lone, I saw a gorgeous scene unrolled, I heard the solemn organ's tone.
The shrine, with myriad torches bright, Blaze with a consecrated light— From fretted roof to pictured wall The votive jewels sparkling hung, While golden bars of sunshine flung Through burnished casements arched and tall, Athwart the jasper pillars broad, In slanting columns, radiant glowed.
But dark with purple pageantries, The solemn nave and massive aisle, Crowded with kneeling votaries, Even in that flood of light were dim, Save where around a new-raised pile, Shadowed by wings of cherubim, The softened daylight met the glare Of fervent lamps, whose fiery ring Circled some dark mysterious thing Exalt, in shrinèd silence there.
I drew within, and now could trace, Pale 'mid the splendour, a still face, A faded brow, a sunken cheek, Sad eyes, which yet no tears could shed, Sad lips, from which no sighs could break, Two upraised hands, 'tween which was laid A crucifix—with rigid clasp The fingers held it in their grasp; An ebon cross upon the vest Seemed with its weight to still the breast; A mournful light was on the' brow, Reflected from the lamp's red glow, Which o'er its ashy paleness shone, And lit the head as with a crown.
Faster and faster from the street, Though scarce you heard the tread of feet, Noiseless, yet swift, the masses came. Soon warm and moist with human breath Flickered and waved the torches' flame, Save where around that Crowned Death With steadfast awe they burned: no more From storied arch to marble floor The sunbeam's chorded radiance streamed, But now its shortened columns gleamed O'er heads bowed down, whose tonsured line Shone as a saintly halo fine—O'er downcast eyes, whose shadows broad, Told me of midnight fast and prayer, Of bitter strife 'gainst fiendish snare—Grim warfare in the name of God!
Beyond this circle, waving plumes And flashing helms were prostrate bent, And thick the air with incense-fumes: So passionately sweet, they lent A fainting sense, half ravishment, Half suffering, to the soul, as soft The fragrant clouds were borne aloft. On high the pealing anthem rung; And first of faith and hope it sung, Then sadder, sadder grew the strain—As if the powers of hell prevailed, It moaned in ecstasy of pain, And through the solemn arches wailed; Then sweet and clear, a single tone, As if a seraph chanted lone, Through thrilling cadences outpoured A vibrating harmonious chord. But 'mid the glory, dark to him, And deaf to chant and choral hymn, The poor pale corpse looked meek and mild, And humble as a little child.
So pale, so wan, it seemed to crave The rest and solace of the grave!— A little dust, "neath which to hide This mocking pomp, this blazoned pride. So sad, it looked yet sadder here, Upraised on this imperial bier, O'er which the sunshine glittered fair, O'er which the torches threw their glare, O'er which the organ’s grand despair Breathed forth its agony of prayer— Than if in some lone quiet room It meekly waited for the tomb, No earthly sounds, no human breath T' affront the majesty of Death!
But here the tie of brotherhood Was wrenched away; yet round him Earth, And Earth's most garish splendour stood:The baptism of angel birth, The holy calm, through which we know This the elect, God-chosen brow, Sealed with His seal, was darkened, here, For earth too far,—for heaven too near.
And 'stead of death-anointed peace, Forlorn and mystic woe, a sense Of deprecating anguish—these, With trumpet-voiced significance, Spoke through these fast-closed lips; though loud The pulses of the kneeling crowd (That warm thick pant of breathing hearts To which yon breathless one imparts Yet quicker throbs), that hush was felt, Distinct through all: what tongue could speak Such eloquence? what plaint could melt Into the soul? what pathos seek To pierce the inmost heart as this Impassive, rigid helplessness? The organ's golden voice seemed mute To its dumb patience, absolute In weakness, dominant o'er all Who knelt beside the broidered pall. Prayerless 'mid those earnest prayers, Unworshipping 'mid worshippers, And severed by a bond of clay, From all who worship and who pray, No mother's passionate caress Would dare that pallid brow to bless— No wistful loving child might brook T'explore for love that changeless look,—A bridgeless, spanless gulf must lie 'Twixt him and our humanity.
I turned away, and through the crowd, As fast as blinding tears allowed, Pressed on—the struggle was in vain; Girt in by that strong living chain, I could not fly, and yet I felt My very soul within me melt. Though alien my clime, my faith, My human sympathy was strong; But, like all human sympathy, Alas! how vain in life or death! In life, we may not shield from wrong Our best beloved—in death dare we Beside them stand to soothe or save, In that dread struggle of the soul When sweeping onwards wave on wave Th' eternal billows o'er them roll?
We know that o'er that form so pale, So calm, so motionless, so still, Hell's leaguered anarchies assail The winged host of heaven; that IllAnd Good are waging battle dread, As God or Satan wait the dead! And yet, unguarded and alone, (Oh, finite impotence of Love!) Each gentle lamb, each tender dove, With bleeding feet must wander on: They, whom with passionate emotion, We shielded o'er Life's stormy ocean, Alone must meet, alone must dare, Heaven's wrath, God's anger, Sin's despair!
Said I alone! O God! through all The flaming wings, the piercing swords, As file on file the glittering hordes Angelic bent above this pall, My awe-struck vision met a light, A lambent halo, glorious bright, From eyes divine, which o'er the dead Their orbèd radiance sheltering spread. Those eyes—those eyes—th' Archangel's shade, The stricken splendour of their brows, Beneath their glance, yet undismayed, A little babe who only knows In the wide world its mother's breast, Where it may nestle to its rest, Might 'neath their light be lulled to sleep—No human mother's glance so deep In its soft pathos, tender love. Those eyes—the very source of love!—Creating where their glances stream, So full of life intense they beam, A Soul where soul seemed none, a breath Out of the body of that Death!
The shining Presence manifest, Faded the earthly pageant's glow, The pomp, the prostrate crowd below, And o'er the organ's triumphs heard, As all its sea of sound were stirred, Rose thrilling sweet the accents blest, "Fear not—I am the first—the last: I have the keys of hell—of death."
Up to those eyes the dead man gazed, Up to those eyes his eyes were raised In contrite faith; and though that look Read bare his heart as 'twere a book—And if the record were of sin, No flames of hell could light within, 'Such an undying agony As the reproof of that mild eye—Yet never from that Countenance Swerved a hair's-breadth the mortal's glance, As if Past time's eternity, The Future's immortality, Concentred and absorbed were In th' Infinite Love revealed there!
My frail poor nature could not long Th' apocalyptic trance retain; I sank to earth, and soon among The mourning crowd I stood again. But now no grief at lowly Death Mocked by Earth's pageant swelled my heart; Nor for that pang of parting breath, Wherein each mortal bears his part—Wherein, in dread equality, The pauper and the monarch lie!
For still the veriest slave that e'er Gasped out in blood his life's despair, Scourged till he died, shall meet those Eyes; And each oppressor that below Holds chartered right to tyrannise, Sceptre in hand, and crown on brow, Must meet them too—those glances keen Shall scan, inexorably just, That lifetime's woe, this lifetime's sin! Earth's erring judgments pass away, The finite doom of clay on clay, The cruel blames of dust on dust—But one Hand only holds the key Of Death, of Hell, Eternity!
In birth the shadow from those Eyes Hallows each infant's tiny brows, In death the seal which sanctifies Each corpse's pallid forehead shows The shining of those Eyes divine—In birth, in death, marked with His sign! Howe'er the gulf betwixt is passed, "I am the first—I am the last."
Peal out, O organ! loud and calm, That thought more glorious music makes Than solemn chant or holy psalm! Its sweet accords such joy awakes, That death I deem th' excelling boon, Humanity's consummate crown! Throughout life's phases manifold, Its heights, its depths, its dust, its gold, Across its flood, I hear this cry, "Revere thy brother—he must die."
I look beyond each circumstance Which hallows or which shames—I know, Deeper than life's brief weal or woe, Death's mighty, true significance! Bound in one common brotherhood, Th' hosannas of the multitude, The meek dejection of the dead, No more a sadd'ning influence shed; For little recks it, how or where, 'Mid bitterest curse or fondest prayer, As brutes cast out upon the sod, Or thus beatified as God, If the last bond of erring clay By God's own hand is rent away—The fellowship with earth undone, The union with Himself begun!
With chastened spirit slow I turned, From where those flaming torches burned, And passed into the daily street. But e'en when once I stood again Amid the thronged haunts of men, A feeling of communion sweet, As I had shared some holy rite, And was new-born in peace and light, Through all my inner being ran. I sought my home an altered man; Though lowlier, yet with purpose fraught, With noble truths divinely taught, Blest revelation unto me Of Death's supremest mystery.