Poems (Dorr)/Friar Anselmo
FRIAR ANSELMO
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FRIAR ANSELMO
Friar Anselmo for a secret sinSat bowed with grief the convent cell within;Nor dared, such was his shame, to lift his eyesTo the low wall whereon, in dreadful guise,The dead Christ hung upon the cursèd tree,Frowning, he thought, upon his misery.What was his sin it matters not to tell. But he was young and strong, the records say:Perhaps he wearied of his narrow cell; Perhaps he longed to work, as well as pray; Perhaps his heart too warmly beat that day!Perhaps—for life is long—the weary roadThat he must travel, bearing as a loadThe slow, monotonous hours that, one by one,Dragged in a lengthening chain from sun to sun,Appalled his eager spirit, and his vowPressed like an iron hand upon his brow.Perhaps some dream of love, of home, of wife,Had stirred this tumult in his lonely life,Tempting his soul to barter heavenly bliss,And sell its birthright for a woman's kiss!At all events, the struggle had been hard;And as a bird from the glad ether barred,So had he beat his wings till, bruised and torn,He wished that night he never had been born!And still the dead Christ on the cursèd treeSeemed but to mock his hopeless misery; Still Mary mother turned her eyes away,Nor saint nor angel bent to hear him pray!
The calm, cold moonlight through the casement shone;Weird shadows darkened on the floor of stone;Without, what solemn splendors! and withinWhat fearful wrestlings with despair and sin!Sudden and loud the cloister bell outrang;Afar a door swung to with sullen clang;And overhead he heard the rhythmic beat,The measured monotone of many feetSeeking the chapel for the midnight prayer.Black wings seemed hovering round him in the air,Beating him back when with a stifled moanHe would have sought the holy altar stone.Then with a swift, sharp cry, prostrate he fellBefore the crucifix. "The gates of hellShall not prevail against me!" loud he cried,Stretching his arms to Christ, the crucified."By Thy dread cross, Thy dying agony,Thine awful passion, Lord, deliver me!"
Was it a dream? The taunting demons fled;Through the dim cell a wondrous glory spread;And all the air was filled with rare perfumesWafted from censers rich with heavenly blooms.Transfigured stood the Christ before his eyes,Clothed in white samite, woven in Paradise,And from the empty cross upon the wallStreamed a wide splendor that encompassed all!Was it a dream? Anselmo's sight grew dim;The cloistered chamber seemed to reel and swim;Yet well his spirit knew the glorious guest,And all his manhood rose to meet the test."What wilt Thou have me, Lord, to do?" he cried With pallid lips, and kissed the sacred feet. And then in accents strangely calm, yet sweet,These words he heard from Christ, the crucified,The pitying Christ his inmost soul who read,With all its wild unrest, its doubt and dread:"Make thou a copy of My Holy World!"Then mystic presences about him stirred;The vision faded. At the dawn of dayProstrate and pallid in the dusk he lay.Was it a dream? God knows! The narrow cellWore the old aspect he had learned so well,And from the crucifix upon the wallNo glory streamed illuminating all!Yet still a subtile fragrance filled the room;And looking round him in the soft, gray gloom,Anselmo saw upon the fretted floorAn eagle's quill that this grave legend bore:"He works most nobly for his fellow-menWho gives My word to them, by tongue or pen!"
Henceforth Anselmo prayed, but worked as well,Nor felt the bondage of his cloister cell;For all his soul was filled with high intent,He had no dream since its accomplishment—To make a copy of the Holy Word,Fairer than eye had seen, or ear had heard,Or heart conceived of! Day by day he wrought,His fingers guided by a single thought;Forming each letter with the tenderest care,With points of richest color here and there;With birds on swaying boughs, and butterflies Poised on gay wings o'er sprays of eglantine; With tangled tracery of flower and vine Through which gleamed cherub faces, half divine;With fading leaves that drift when summer dies,And angels floating down the evening skies— Each word an orison, each line a prayer!Slowly the work went on from day to day;The seasons came and went; May followed May;Year after year passed by with stately treadTo join the countless legions of the dead,Till Fra Anselmo, wan and bowed with age,Bent, a gray monk, above the parchment page.Death waited till he wrote the last fair line,Then touched his hand and closed the Book Divine!
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The world has grown apace since then.He who would give GOD'S word to men,In cloistered cell, o'er parchment page,No longer bends from youth to age.Countless as leaves by autumn strewnThe leaves of His great Book are blownOver the earth as wide and farAs seeds by wandering breezes are!Yet none the less He speaks to-day As to Anselmo in his cell;Bidding men speed upon their way His later messages as well.For not alone in Holy Book, In revelations dim and old, In sweetest stories simply told, In grand, prophetic strains that reach The loftiest heights of human speech, In martial hymn, or saintly psalm, In fiery threat, or logic calm, God's messages are writ to-day—And He whose voice Mount Sinai shook Still bids men hearken and obey!He writes His name upon the hills;He whispers in the mountain rills; He speaks through every flower that blows,In breath of lily, tint of rose;In sultry calms; in furious beatOf the wild storm's tempestuous feet;In starlit night, and dewy morn,And splendor of the day new-born!He uttereth His thunders whereThe shock of battle rends the air;He guides the fiery steeds of War;He rules unseen the maddening jar,The hate and din of party strife,And bids it serve the nation's life;He leads fair Science, where she walks With stately tread among the stars,Or where, with reverent voice, she talks With Nature through the eternal bars!His Word is uttered wheresoe'erA human soul has ears to hear.The royal message never errs;God send it true interpreters!