  Said hermit monk to hermit monk, “Friend, in this island anchorage Our life has tranquilly been sunk From pious youth to pious age, “In such clear waves of quietness, Such peace from argument or brawl That one prime virtue I confess Has never touched our hearts at all. “Forgiveness, friend! who can forgive But after anger or dissent? This never-pardoning life we live May earn God’s blackest punishment.” His friend, resolved to find a ground For rough dispute between the two That mutual pardons might abound, With cunning from his wallet drew A curious pebble of the beach And scowled, “This treasure is my own:” He hoped for sharp unfriendly speech Or angry snatching at the stone. But honeyed words his friend outpours, “Keep it, dear heart, you surely know Even were it mine it still were yours, This trifle that delights you so.” The owner, acting wrath, cries, “Brother, What’s this? Are my deserts so small You’d give me trifles?” But the other Smiles, “Brother, you may take my all. He then enraged with one so meek, So unresponsive to his mood, Most soundly smites the martyr cheek And rends the island quietude. The martyr, who till now has feigned In third degree of craftiness That meekness is so deep ingrained No taunt or slight can make it less, Spits out the tooth in honest wrath, “You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he. They grapple on the rocky path That zigzags downward to the sea. In rising fury strained and stiff They lunge across the narrow ground; They topple headlong from the cliff And murderously embraced are drowned. . . . . . . . . . . Here Peter sits: two spirits reach To sound the knocker at his Gate. They shower forgiveness each on each, Beaming triumphant and elate. But oh, their sweats, their secret fears Lest clod-souled witnesses may rise To set a tingling at their ears And bar the approach to Paradise! |
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