Classic Poem

When good Saint Louis reigned in France as king,
And William, Bishop of Paris, ministering
To all the churches, kept them pure and glad,
There came one day a learned man, who had
Journeyed from distant provinces to find
His Bishop and unload his burdened mind.
Entering the Bishop's presence, he began
To speak: but sobs choked all his voice; tears ran
Like rain from out his eyes, and no words came
To tell his grief. Then said the Bishop:
“Shame
Not thyself so deeply, Master: no man
So sins but that the gracious Jesus can
Forgive an hundred thousand fold more guilt
Than his, and cleanse it by his dear blood spilt,”
“I tell you, Sire,” the Master said, “I must
Forever weep: I am accursed. I trust
Not in the holy altar-sacrament,
As taught to us; I cannot but dissent
From all the Church doth say of it: and yet
I know my doubts are but temptations set
By Satan's self, to sink my soul to hell.
O Sire, I am a wretched Infidel.”
Then said the gentle Bishop:
“This one thing
Tell me, O honest Master, do they bring
Thee pleasure, these dark doubts?”
“O, no! my Sire,”
The weeping Master said: “they burn like fire
Within my bones.”
“And could thy lips to speak
Thy doubts be bought by gold? And would'st thou seek
To shake a brother's faith?”
“I, Sire!” exclaimed
The Master. “I! I would be bruised and maimed,
And torn from limb to limb, ere I would say
Such words.”
Then said the Bishop, smiling: “Lay
Aside now for a space thy grief and fear,
And listen. Soon my meaning will appear,
Though it be strangely hid at first below
My words.
Thou know'st that war is raging now
Between the King of England and of France;
Thou know'st that of our castles greatest chance
Of loss has La Rochelle, there in Poitou,
Lying so near the border. If to you
The King had given La Rochelle to hold,
And unto me—no less true man and bold,
Perhaps—the Castle of Laon to keep,
Far in the heart of France, where I might sleep
All day, all night, unharmed, if so I chose,—
So safe beyond the reach of all our foes
Lies Laon,—when the war is ended, who
Ought from the King to have the most thanks?
You,
Who La Rochelle had saved by bloody fights,
Or I, who spent in Laon peaceful nights?”
“In faith, Sire, I, who guarded La Rochelle!”
The wondering Master cried.
“So, then, I tell
Thee,” said the Bishop, in most gentle tone,
“My heart is like the Castle of Laon.
Temptations, doubts, cannot my soul assail.
Therefore, I say that thou, who dost prevail
Against such foes of Satan's mustering,
Art four times pleasing to the Heavenly King,
Where I am once; and thy good fortress, kept,
Shall win thee glory such as saints have wept
To win! Go, joyful! Put thy sorrow by.
Thou art far dearer to the Lord than I.”
Scarce dared the Master trust such words as these;
But silent, grateful, fell upon his knees
Until the Bishop blessed him. Then he went
Away in solemn wonder and content.
They lie in graves, the saints who knew this tale,
The King, the Bishop, and the Seneschal,
And he who doubted,—rest their souls in peace!—
And even mention of their names men cease
To make. But, knowing all, as they must know,
Of God, who roam his universes through,
Untrammelled spirits, they could tell to men
To-day no deeper truth than was told then,
To cheer and comfort him who fighteth well
To save a heart besieged like La Rochelle.