Poems by Walter Richard Cassels Part 11

Poor soul! that, catching at the skirts of Truth.

m.u.f.fleth his eyes that he may see her not.

MORGAN.

Good Father! go thou to him, for this doubt That lays its stony spell upon his heart, Is sadder far than tears--

MONK.

It is mine office Still to bear balm unto the bleeding heart; Then lead on, friend, and let us trust in Heaven.

[_They pa.s.s in_.

II.--_In the Chamber._

LLEWELLYN _and_ MONK.

MONK.

Benedicite! my son;

LLEWELLYN.

Hus.h.!.+ speak low, The child is sleeping.

MONK.

Ay! we should speak low Where Death is, though no sound can ever wake Those whom he cradles in his bony arms.

LLEWELLYN.

Who speaks of Death in presence of a child!

MONK.

Alas! my son, the bud though ne'er so close It fold the fragrant treasure of its youth, Is by the nip of Winter shorn betimes.

LLEWELLYN.

Though Death should grimly stalk into the house, And stand beside the slumber of a child, Think you that gazing on its mimic self, Sleep, beautiful and wondrous, in the crib, His owlish thoughts would not wing suddenly, Through cycles of decay, back to the time When he was one with Sleep, and pa.s.sing fair; Think you he would not sigh, "Sleep, on! sleep on!

Thou copy and thou counterfeit of me, And teach the world that I was beautiful."

The child is sleeping.

MONK.

O my son! my son!

These are delusions that but wrong the soul, And keep the aching thoughts from peace and Heaven.

LLEWELLYN.

Why, Father, if Death woke him as he lay, The lad would look up at him with a smile, And twist his little limbs in childish sport, Until the angel, surfeited with fear, Would love and spare the thing that fear'd him not.

No man could see his pretty ways and frown,-- And he was full of little childish tricks, That won the very heart out of a man In spite of him. There's Beowolf the Curst, With ne'er a gentle word for man or child, But cold and crusty as a northern hill-- Why this day sen'night did my master there, Crawl up his knees without a Yea or Nay, And toy'd him with his sword-hilt merrily, Till the rough man, caught with his gamesome arts, Swore that he had the making of a man; And, for the maids, there's none but has a word, Or kiss to bandy with the gainsome lad; Ay! when he wakes you'll see how he will crow, And fill the place with laughter--he's no girl, Puking and mewling evermore--not he.

MONK.

Good lack! my son, your heart is too much set Upon the child, to bow before Heav'n's will, That turns your soul back to itself with stripes; Oh! know you not, Sir, that the child is dead?

LLEWELLYN.

You all have conn'd the same wise tale by rote-- The child is sleeping; hus.h.!.+ and wake him not.

MONK.

Nay! doth your mind not stumble on the truth, Here by this old hound lying at your feet, With all his clotted blood in crimson pools Curdling among the rushes on the floor?

LLEWELLYN.

The hound?--the hound--Poor Gelert! well-a-day!

It was ill-done of me--a wicked stroke, A wicked stroke--and the boy, too, asleep.

And now I mind me how he loved the dog; How many an hour he sported in the sun, Twining his grisly neck with summer buds; And how the dog was patient with the boy, Yielding him gently to his little arms-- There was a lion's heart in the old hound!

The deed's accursed--accursed--the child will wake, And call for Gelert with his merry voice; And when the dog no more comes stalking nigh, With great mild head to meet the outstretch'd hands, The child will sob his heart out for his friend; For, Sir, his nature is right full of love, And generous affections, never slack To let his soul have s.p.a.ce and mastery-- A wicked stroke!

MONK.

Ah! would his voice could sound Ever again among your silent halls; But the sweet treble never more shall ring Across the chambers to your wistful ear; Then hear it now come floating down from heav'n, Calling your lone and bleeding heart to G.o.d.

LLEWELLYN.

His voice was very sweet, a silvery stream Of music, rippling softly through my life-- And ne'er to hear his little prattling tongue, Stumbling upon the threshold steps of speech, Catching quaint sounds and fragments of discourse, And setting them to childish uses straight-- I've sat and heard him by the hour--you'd wonder To hear his little saws and sentences, And now to think I'll hear him never more-- Alack! alack!--but no, it is not true-- The child is sleeping--Ay! it must be so.

What know you, Father, of an infant's sleep?

You, in your stony cell 'mid shaven friars, All crowding down the nether side of life, Hearing no sweeter voice than matin-bells, No speech, but grace in cold refectories; Ay! thence it is--Oh fool! that I should doubt!

'Tis so--'tis so--I knew that I should pluck The cowl from your delusion--Is't not so?

MONK.

Oh son, your woful faith moves all my heart.

'Tis pitiful! but see you not the blood That hotly streaks your sleeping lily there?

See how it laces all his garments o'er, And signs the grievous sentence of your joy.

LLEWELLYN.

Blood?--blood?--nay, how is this?--I--very like The sun s.h.i.+nes redly on him--I have seen The sky look ruddy, as with all the blood Of battle-fields, where no man cried for grace.

Blood? look, Sir; look again--I--something clouds Mine eyes to-day--I see more thick than wont.

MONK.

Nay! lean on me--Come! look upon your child, And Heav'n in ruth will smite your drouthy heart, And send the balm of tears about your soul.