Classic Poem

Fourscore years have come and gone,
Since the Asrai Mother knelt down and prayed,
Since the boon was gained, and her little one
Found a soul and cast a shade;
And now by the side of the same still Mere,
A mighty Monastery stands,
And morn and even its bell rings clear,
Tinkling over the silver sands;
And the Asrai as they come and go
Hear the sounds in the waters below,
And ever to them the sweet sounds seem
Like distant music heard in a dream,
And they pause and smile, and they murmur " Hark,"
With uplifted fingers!

Old, old, old,
With hoary hair and beard snow-white,
With vacant vision and senses cold,
Crawling out to feel the light —
Like a man of marble, gaunt and tall,
Heavy with years, is the Abbot Paul.
Fourscore years have slowly shed
Their snows on the mighty Abbot's head —
But not so white are his thoughts within,
That tell of a long dark life of sin.
Ever he totters and grows to the ground,
And ever by night he hears a sound
Of voices that whisper his name and weep;
And he starteth up in his nightly sleep
With a touch like a hand upon his hair,
And he looketh around in a sick despair,
But he seeth nought. And he prayeth low:
" Pity me, God; and let me go
Out of the sunlight, — shaking away
This form fire-fashioned out of clay!"
And often his dark beads counteth he:
" Maria Madonna, come for me!
For I am sick of the sinful light."

Now ever he readeth low each night
In a parchment scroll, with pictures quaint
Of many a shining-headed Saint
Smiling, each 'mid his aureole,
O'er the dark characters of the scroll;
And ever when he totters abroad
He bears this parchment scroll of God
Against his heart; or in the sun
He spells its letters one by one
With dim dark eyes, as he creepeth slow.

... 'Tis a summer even. The sun sinks low,
And the light of its solemn setting lies
Golden and crimson on the skies,
Purple over the brow of the hill,
And violet dim on the waters still
Of the glassy Mere. In the zenith blue,
Already, dim as drops of dew,
Twinkle the stars!

In his great arm-chair,
Carried out to the open air,
On the edge of a promontory sweet,
With the waters rippling at his feet,
Sits the Abbot Paul; and his fingers cold
Still grip that parchment holy and old.
Behind his chair there standeth grim
With cold black eyeball fix'd on him,
A serving-monk.

The air is chill,
The light is low, but he readeth still,
Mumbling the sacred words aloud;
And ever his weary neck is bowed
At the names of Mary and every Saint;
While ever fainter and more faint
His voice doth grow, as he murmureth:
" Holy of Holies, drink my breath!
For I am sick of the sinful light!"

... The sun hath sunken out of sight
In the cloudy west afar away —
Chilly it groweth, chilly and gray —
But who is this with steps so still
Coming yonder across the hill?
Over the peaks with a silvern tread
Flashing, then rising overhead
In the open heaven of a golden June?

O Moon! white Summer Moon!

Down the mountain and into the Mere
The pale ray falleth, so silvern clear,
And it creepeth silently over all,
Till it shineth full on the Abbot Paul,
Where he sits and prays. O see! O see!
Sadder, stiller, groweth he,
But his eyes still burn with a dying gleam;
While faint, far off, as in a dream,
He hears a murmur, he sees a light.

Silently, coldly, marble white,
Pale and pure as the moonray dim,
Smiling, outstretching her arms to him,
His Spirit Mother upriseth now!

A light not human is on his brow,
A light no human is in his eyes —
Fold by fold, like a dark disguise,
The mortal dress is dropping away;
Silently, slowly, sinks the clay;
His eyes see clear by some mystic spell,
And he knoweth the gentle presence well.

" O Mother! Mother!"

She answereth low:
" Come from the gleam of the golden glow,
From the wicked flush of the fever'd strife,
Back to the mystical moonlight life!
Thy heart is heavy, thy sense is drear,
Weary with wandering many a year —
Come from the sorrows of the Sun!
My own pale darling, my little one!"

" O Mother! Mother!"

Her arms so dim
Are round his neck, and she kisseth him!
She smoothes his hair with a gentle hand,
And she sings a song of the moonlight land.
He listens and listens, but still in a dream
Looking afar off his dark eyes gleam,
Beyond her, through her, at some strange thing
There on the hilltops, beckoning! ...

Dead in his chair lies the Abbot Paul,
But a Shape stands by him, stately and tall,
And another Shape upon her knee
Is looking up in her agony.

" O Mother! Mother!" the tall Shape cries,
Gazing on her with gentle eyes —
" O Mother, Mother, I cannot stay —
A voice is summoning me away —
Up the shining track of the sun,
Past the sphere of the spectral moon,
Further, higher, my path must run —
I have found a Soul, and thou hast thy boon;
And the Soul is a scourge, and the scourge a fire
And it shoots me onward to strive and soar,
For this is the end of thy heart's desire —
I rest not, stay not, for evermore.
O kiss me, Mother, before I go!"

They kiss each other, those shapes of snow,
They cling in the moonlight, they kiss each other —
" Child, my child!" and " Mother! Mother!"

Silently, swiftly, through the air
Riseth one like a meteor fair,
Riseth one with a last wild cry,
While the other sinks in a silent swoon,
And whiter, brighter, over the sky,
Burneth the light of that night of June!

O Moon! sad Summer Moon!