Poems (Jackson)/The Abbot Paphnutius

THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS.

OW on the gray stone floor Paphnutius kneltScourging his breast, and drawing tight his beltOf bloody nails.

Of bloody nails."O God, dear God!" he cried,"These many years that I have crucifiedMy sinful flesh, and called upon thee nightAnd day, are they all reckoned in thy sight?And wilt thou tell me now which saint of thineI am most like? and is there bond or signThat I can find him by and win him here,That we may dwell as brothers close and dear?"

Silent the river kept its gentle flowBeneath the walls; the ash-trees to and froSwayed silent, save a sigh; a sunbeam laidIts bar along the Abbot's beads, which madeUncanny rhythm across the quiet air,The only ghost of sound which sounded there,As fast their smooth-worn balls he turned and told,And trembled, thinking he had been too bold.But suddenly, with solemn clang and swell,In the high tower rang out the vesper-bell;And subtly hidden in the pealing tones,Melodious dropping from celestial thrones,These words the glad Paphnutius thrilling heard:"Be not afraid! In this thou hast not erred; Of all my saints, the one whose heart most suitsTo thine is one who, playing reedy flutes,In the great market-place goes up and down,While men and women dance, in yonder town."

Oh, much Paphnutius wondered, as he wentTo robe him for the journey. Day was spent,And cunning night had spread and lit her snaresFor souls made weak by weariness and cares,When to the glittering town the Abbot came.With secret shudder, half affright, half shame,Close cowled, he mingled in the babbling throng,And with reluctant feet was borne alongTo where, by torches' fitful glare and smoke,A band of wantons danced, and screamed, and spokeSuch words as fill pure men with shrinking fear."Good Lord deliver me! Can he be here,"The frightened Abbot said, "the man I seek?"Lo, as he spoke, a man reeled dizzy, weakWith ribald laughter, clutching him by gownAnd shoulder; and before his feet threw downSoft twanging flutes, which rolled upon the stoneAnd broke. Outcried the Abbot with a groan,Seizing the player firm in mighty hands,"o man! what doest thou with these vile bandsOf harlots? God hath told to me thou artA saint of his, and one whose life and heartAre like my own; and I have journeyed hereFor naught but finding thee."

For naught but finding thee."In maze and fear,The player lifted up his blood-shot eyes,And stammered drunkenly, "Good father, lies Thy road some other way. Take better heedNext time thou seekest saints! One single deedOf good I never did. I live in sins.Unhand me now! another dance begins.""Flute-player," said the Abbot, stern and sweet,"God cannot lie! Some deed thou hast done meetFor serving him. Bethink thee now, and tell.Where was it that the blessed chance befell?"Half-sobered by the Abbot's voice and mien,The player spoke again, "No more I weenOf serving God, than if no God there were:But now I do remember me of herThat once I saved from hands of robber-men,Whose chief I was. I know I wondered thenWhat new blood could have quickened in my veins.I gave her, spite myself, of our rich gainsThree hundred pieces of good gold, to freeHer husband and her sons from slavery.But love of God had nought to do with this:I know him, love him not; I do not missNor find him in the world. I love my sins.Now let me go! another dance begins.""Yes, go!" the Abbot gently said, and tookHis grasp from off his arm. "But, brother, look,If God has thus to thee this one good deedSo fully counted, wilt thou not take heedThyself, remembering him?"

Thyself, remembering him?"Then homeward slow,Alone and sad, where he had thought to goTriumphant with a new-found brother-saint,The Abbot went. But vain he set restraint Upon his wondering thoughts: through prayer, through chant,The question ever rang, "What could God wantTo teach me, showing me that sinful manAs saint of nearest kin to me, who canAbide no sin of thought or deed."

Abide no sin of thought or deed."Three daysThe Abbot went his patient, silent ways.The river lapped in gentle, silent flowThe cloister-wall; the ash-trees to and froSwayed silent, save a sigh: the third night, came—Low rapping at the cloister-door, in shameAnd fear—the player!

And fear—the player!Then Paphnutius rose,His pale face kindled red with joyful glows;The monks in angry, speechless wonder stood,Seeing this vagabond to brotherhoodMade so soon welcome. But the Abbot said,"O brothers! this flute-player in such steadIs held of God, that, when in lonelinessI knelt and prayed for some new saint to blessOur house, God spoke, and told me this man's name,As his who should be brother when he came."

Flute-player and Paphnutius both have sleptIn dust for centuries. The world has keptNo record of them save this tale, which setsBut bootless lesson: still the world forgetsThat God knows best what hearts are counted hisStill men deny the thing whose sign they miss; Still pious souls pray as Paphnutius prayedFor brother-souls in their own semblance made;And slowly learn, with outcries and complaints,That publicans and sinners may be saints!