The Continental Monthly, Vol. 5, No. 1, January, 1864

A VIGIL WITH ST. LOUIS

"Χεἱρες μεν ἁγναἱ, φρἡν δ ἑχει μἱασμἁ τι."

    Euripides.

O Friend, thy brow is overcast; but haply for thy grief,
Though all untold, a spell I hold to work a swift relief,—
A hallowed spell;—no rites we need that shun the light,
Thy taper trim; for we must read some dark old words to-night.
For I will, shall I?—from their graves call up the holy dead,
More mighty than the living oft such soul as thine to aid.
From Fear and Woe, through fears and woes like thine, they won release,
And through our still confronting foes once fought their way to peace.
'Twixt woe and weal, a balm to heal our every wound they found,
An outlet for each pool of strife, that whirls us round and round.
And if perhaps their childish time discerned not all aright,—
While Fancy her stained windows reared between them and the light,—
That in these clearer latter days 'tis given to thee to know,
Then seek the spirit they received, and bid the letter go.
Thy heart unto its Lord unlock; and shut thy closet's door.
The holy water of thy tears drop on the quiet floor.
Unclasp the old brown tome. The walls no more are seen. The page
I read; and we are backward borne far in a bygone age.
The spell hath wrought. To take us in, a tower and bower advance
Where grows upon our steadfast gaze the royal saint of France.
The bower full well a hermit's cell—with hourglass and with skull—
Might seem,—the hangings woven all of rocks and mosses full.
The floor is thick with rushes strown. Some resting place is there
Worn,—as amid the rushy marsh by stag that made his lair,—
Worn just beneath yon carven form, that bends in pain and love,
As if to bless, from its high place, and almost seems to move,
While round it in the wind of night the arras swells and swings,—
The viceroy's of the universe, son of the King of kings.
For Louis loves to leave his court, and lay aside his crown,
And to a mightier Prince than he to bow in homage down.
In this great presence learns the king peace, truth, and lowlihead;
Here learns the saint the majesty no earthly power to dread.
But now the king's mute voice it rings, and through the shades doth call:
'Ho, Sire de Jonville, come to me, my doughty seneschal!'
The rafters feel the tramp of steel; and by the monarch stand
Again the feet that by him stood far in the Holy Land.
'O Sire de Jonville,' to his friend and servant Louis saith,
'Hold fast and firmly to the end the jewel of thy faith.
Strong faith's the key of heaven; and once an abbot taught to me,
If will is good, though faith is weak, shall faith accepted be.
This tale he told[11 - The following story, in substance, is to be found in Joinville's Memoirs.]:

A Master old,—Master of Sacred Lore,—
Of life unsmirched, once came to him in straits and travail sore,
'What wouldst thou, Master?—What the grief that makes thee peak and pine?
And comest thou to me?—My soul hath often leaned on thine!'
'Let each co-pilgrim lean in turn on each,' in anguish meek,
With tongue that clave unto his mouth, the Master then did speak;
But when the abbot led him in and lent his pitying ears,
Then tears came fast instead of words; words could not come for tears.
'O brother, weep no more; but speak, and banish thy dismay.
Of man is guilt; but grace is God's, that purgeth guilt away.
If all our little being's bound were filled and stuffed with sin,
'Twere nothing to the holiness His mighty heart within;
And in this wilderness of life there's no such crooked road,
But from it may a path be found straight to the throne of God.
The penitent that mourns like thee, that path will surely take.
What needeth but to own thy sin and straight thy sin forsake?'
'Yet must I weep. Mine inward plight is one that stands alone.
The outward ill the tempted wight may do or leave undone;
But when I to the altar go, to eat the sacred bread
And gaze upon the blood divine, that for us all was shed,
Still Satan stirreth up in me a heart of unbelief!—
This guilt must sure unmeasured be, save haply by this grief!'
The abbot's brows were sternly bent an instant on his guest:
'Dost thou—thou dost not, sure!—invite this traitor to thy breast?'
'The livelong day, though sore assailed, true watch and ward I keep,—
Keep vigils long as flesh can bear,—but in my helpless sleep—
Thronged heaven, canst thou no angel spare, to sit by me by night
And drive away the hell-sent dreams, that drive me wild with fright?—
I seem to spill with frantic hands, and spurn the piteous blood,
To trample on the blessed bread, and spit upon the rood!'
The abbot's cheer grew calm and clear: 'Now, Master, tell me true:
For aught that Satan proffers thee, such trespass wouldst thou do?'
'From his poor thrall he taketh all, and offers nought instead.
The Father's grace,—the Son's mild face,—are all I crave,' he said.
'For any threat of any fate, wouldst follow his commands?'
'The fiery stake I'd rather make my portion at his hands!'
The abbot's mien was bright, I ween, as 'twere a saint's in bliss:
'O fiend, 'tis well to seek for hell so pure a gem as this!
O cunning foe, that round dost go these heavenward birds to snare,
When every brighter line is vain, wouldst tempt them with despair?
Bethink thee, Master. War doth rage 'twixt Britain's king, we know,
And ours. Now tell me unto whom most thanks our liege shall owe,
When war is o'er? To him who, oft assailed but never quelled,
The castle of Rochelle upon the dangerous Marches held,—
Whose battlements must bristle still with halberd, bow, and lance,—
Or Montl'hery's, that nestles safe close to the heart of France?'
'Unto the warden of Rochelle. Thou'rt answered easily!'
'That stronghold is thy heart, but mine the keep of Montl'hery,
For He who giveth gifts to all, hath given me to believe
So steadfastly, that strife like thine my wit can scarce conceive.
From th' Enemy God keepeth me,—He knows my weaker strength,—
But suffers thee assayed to be for higher meed at length.