Classic Poem

Now in the chapel, ye shall understand,
When sat those knights and ladies, gazing all
On one another, ranged on either hand,
Ere that the chants began, it did befall
That Mano cast his eyes on Blanche the Fair;
And of a bitter love became the thrall;
Oh, bitterly love's thrall, Oh, then and there
So that, although erewhile to Italy
He had been purposed swiftly to repair,
His mind was changed, and he gan secretly
Devise to tarry longer in that place:
Which was his first fall from integrity
Nor less Joanna to her fate did race,
Who that same hour went into love as deep
With him, as he with Blanche. O cruel case!
I, to whom mortal love is sin, can weep
At the most fatal stroke of love, which still
Of ordered joys makes but a tangled heap:
When I consider all the bitter ill
Which came thereof: how Mano his life's peace
Lost in the mournful frenzy of his will:
And how Joanna, till her soul's release,
Never knew joy, but hungrily did watch
The love which all so nigh her did increase:
But, though so nigh, no glimmer could she catch,
Nor any ray of warmth: ah fate unkind,
That love's designs and deeds so ill should match!
I say that I, though with a zealous mind
Devoted to the Benedictine rule,
Which blessed Odo on his monks did bind,
And all my life instructed so to school
My senses to exclude love's very thought,
And turn from him who is love's slave and fool;
Yet in my secret's heart I never sought
To shut out pity for such misery;
So blessed Maiolus and Aylmer taught:
They pitied too that human woe: and I
Who learned of them in youth, and still observed
Of those great men the grave austerity,
Deem that in age I shall not thence have swerved,
If with full heart I write of what befell
Through love's great force: nay, thereto am I nerved,
And in the thought of them think I do well:
Their reverend zeal and aspect so benign,
And their old age of toil within me dwell
When I and other youths, compeers of mine,
To evil thoughts gave way, and restless grew
Under the burden of our vows divine,
Then Maiolus and Aylmer ever threw
Themselves between us and the gates of sin
With lifted hands and eyes of lovely hue:
And their sweet counsel probed so deeply in
Our stormy hearts with loving words and wise,
That we with penitence would soon begin;
Yea, break in tears, and strong tempestuous sighs,
And soon our feeble zeal was re-illumed
From their bright torch, with clearer flame to rise.
For they victorious emblems had assumed
Over the flesh, while we were fighting still:
They fly not fast whose souls for heaven be plumed:
But by God's law on earth they tarry till
Others grow strong who feebler pennons wave:
Nor did they this command austerely fill.
Oft in their dehortation mild they gave
Strange knowledge how in youth themselves were tried
By wiles from which themselves they could not save:
But if they stood, through grace it did betide:
And many a wondrous miracle they told
In which heaven's grace in them was magnified:
And many a penance undergone of old,
Through which their evil nature was subdued:
That we against the flesh might wax more bold
Then we ourselves in labours stern and rude,
Fasts, vigils, chantings, stripes, by slow degrees
Arose above each passion wild and lewd;
And as life passed, grew more and more at ease.
But life was well-nigh passed ere that, as now,
My mind her thoughts was able to appease,
And live by memory in times gone through,
And so collected as to gaze upon
The joys of others without present woe,
Their griefs without malignity thereon:
And even now at times I feel the wrong
Of having lived my woful life alone.
Why should I serve this toil? though I belong
Through this, I trust, to heaven's elected bands?
So feels the priest, when comes the nuptial throng,
Which day by day approaches where he stands
White-robed, awaiting, that they may partake
The holy marriage blessing from his hands.
No joy is stored for him, although he make
The joys of others holy, last of all
To be remembered, let him smile or ache.
Yet in this sadness it is usual
To find great peace: and only pity grows
In me beholding how men's woes befall.
But I will say, if ever aught arose
In me akin to thoughts which women move,
Joanna sweetest, sacred through her woes
To me — but what has that to do with love?