  THE MANSION THAT ENDURED(This legend, in prose, I found in a French collection, and have believed it would be acceptable rendered into verse. M. L.) Back, in olden time when emperors Ruled the land where Tiber flows, Proud and stern dwelt Gondoforus, As the ancient legend shows. As he mused in hours of leisure, Came into his brain this thought: "Straight I'll build, for mine own glory Here, a palace deftly wrought "Of the richest gold and silver; With the choicest gems bedecked; That shall on my house and lineage Still a greater light reflect. "Shall outshine the Roman Emperor's In its beauty and its worth; Place fore'er his lordly structure 'Mid the lesser of the earth." So he sent his message speeding To the regions far and near, That some great and cunning builder Might at his command appear. When, one day, with mien all lowly, Wrapped about in garments gray, Stood the architect before him, His behest to now essay. Spoke his will—and Gondoforus Went forth proudly unto war; Days and months sped on unheeded, Still no word came from afar. Yet the architect wrought, silent, Though he touched nor plan nor pen; For the palace he was building Was not seen by eyes of men. While unto the poor and wretched Freely of the gold gave he; Precious stones were turned to healing Needs of poor humanity! Back, returning flushed with victory, Gondoforus came apace; Sought, in vain, to view his palace— Bare and empty was its place! Then he sent, with sternest message, For the architect, and said— "Caitiff, what is now thy showing? Answer, by thy hoary head!" Thomas (he who, doubting, lingered When his fellows pressed to claim As their risen Lord, the Saviour) Spake: "Oh, thou of kingly name, "Lo! thy house is even builded!" But the warrior bade them cast In deep dungeon him who trifled With his will—there bind him fast, While he planned the subtlest torment For the traitor's aged frame, While he doomed, with keenest vengeance, Him to torture, death and shame! But, as in his rage he pondered, Sleep o'ertook him, held him chained, And a vision hovered near him— Earthly sense grew dim and waned. Then the spirit of his brother Swiftly to his side drew nigh; Said, in words that thrilled his being, "He whom thou hast doomed to die "Is the servant of the Mighty; Is an instrument of grace, For the angels now have shown me (Where no narrow walls have place "And where dwell the hosts eternal) Reared in all its beauty there, Lo! a House of precious jewels And of ornament most fair. "Fashioned of the precious metals Thou wouldst fain have builded here; Fashioned with a grace and glory That on Earth doth not appear. Thus, in Paradise there standeth Waiting thee, a House divine, Which the Architect hath fashioned All on Earth to now outshine!" Then the vision paled and vanished; Gondoforus straightway sped To the captive, who awaiting, Bowed in prayer his aged head. Gondoforus knelt before him; Then the holy Thomas spoke, As he raised the humble warrior Crushed beneath the vision's stroke— "Knowest not, O King, the mansions That endure, are reared on high? Builded there, for us, in Heaven By our faith and charity." THE CHIMESOn fair Lake Como's sunny brink, An ancient monastery stood Close to the mountain's steep ascent, As nestling 'neath its snowy hood. And there a pale young artisan His cunning plied; a wondrous chime He sought to frame, that those who loved The beauty of that molten rhyme Within the valley's breadth should hear Pealing at morn and even clear. For years he toiled, content if he At last might frame a chime so sweet That pilgrims oft would silent pause To hear the music glad repeat. Borne o'er the tranquil waters' reach And bringing swift unto the heart Its tones of warning, praise, and love, That nevermore should then depart. Such was the thought he wove, and prayed That his life's work be holy made. The day came when that perfect chime Was placed aloft, its song to wing Forth o'er the waters' silent reach And to the convent's roof to bring The lost and wayworn traveller from The busy haunts of world and strife, Back, where the calm of prayer might prove The guide-post to Eternal life! Then was the artisan as one Whose dearest life-work, here, was done. Not so, howe'er! 'Twas yet to be A lifelong task—a path to lead Through many a land, in futile search O'er stony ways where feet should bleed. Not yet his soul's high guerdon find— The prize his hands had placed aloft. How rarely here on earth we see Life's morning fill its promise soft. Not yet was he to find his rest Beside Lake Como's lovely breast. A savage horde o'erran the land And bore away the prizÉd chime; Afar from peaceful Como's side, To some unknown and distant clime. In vain the artisan complained Beneath a fate unkind; he drew No comfort from lament or prayer, For peace no more his hearthstone knew. Then, as one day he brooding mused And consolation sweet refused, He seemed to see before his eyes A land outspread, wherein his feet Should wander, seeking ever there His loved and lost—his chime so sweet, He rose at once; he sought no aid; But bowed his head in silent prayer; Then from his home he straightway passed That no one might his purpose share. And leaving home and rest that day With breaking heart went on his way. Whene'er he heard, in foreign land, Some wondrous story of a chime Whose tones were liquid notes of song, Whose bells rang out a gladsome rhyme, He journeyed to that storied place, Nor paused till he should reach the spot,— Only to find his quest in vain, While yet those bells were ne'er forgot. Each day his soul went up in prayer That those clear chimes might pierce the air! Thus journeyed he for many a year While locks of gold had turned to grey Till in a distant land he strayed And heard at close of summer day The old sweet song rung by his chime He long had listened for in vain! Quickly rose tears in lifted eyes, Quickly his heart renounced its pain! "O loved and lost! for many a day You've called me from my youth away!" For now on foreign strand he waits Alone in age—alone in kin, Listening as listens one who bides Outside of Heaven, to praise within. Not vain his search! not lost his love! He feels once more the old-time throb Ere cruel foes his prize had ta'en; No more may they his treasure rob! His life went forth in one glad cry Beneath that far-off, alien sky! 'Twas ended—all the tender search; The hours of pain and sleepless toil; There, where no loved his hand might clasp; There, on that wild and foreign soil. But deep within his heart was writ His purpose pure; his steadfast search. And lo! his chime still calls to prayer, And still peals forth from ivied church. The bells once blessed by saintly hands Now call, in Limerick, God's commands! My story's done—what need to say He sleeps as well and sweetly there Beneath that arch of foreign sky As in his native land so fair. He found, ere death had met his feet The prize he sought with spirit brave, And finding was content to lie Afar from Como in his grave. Love was the goal that led his feet To peace and deathless calm replete. The chimes? Ah, well, perhaps they peal No less the sweetly that their note In alien lands the tidings bring; They still to God their praise devote, And though their maker no more hears The liquid music of each tone, They speak to those whose living needs Make of the chimes their very own. Though hand that made is turned to clay, His work—the chimes—lives on alway! FRANCIS COSTER'S STORY(I came across this legend, in prose, some time ago, to which was prefixed this note: "The following exquisite story was written by Anthony of Sienna, and translated from the Dominican records by Francis Coster, a famous preacher of the sixteenth century. Mr. Gould, author of Mysteries of the Middle Ages, has succeeded in rendering it into current English." In rendering the story into verse, I have kept to the text as closely as possible. M. L.) Once—I've read in olden story— Lived a holy man of God, And two children, 'neath his guidance, Through life's pitfalls safely trod. Every day's returning duties Found them docile at his side, There to draw from Wisdom's fountain All his tender care supplied. But the day's first, freshest hour At the altar found them prone, Gladly giving to their Savior All He claimeth as His own. There they served with purest offering At the sacrifice sublime, Knelt, responded, and with reverence Sounded oft the bell's clear chime. And this duty then completed, To the little chapel door Turned their feet, and, entering, vanished There to eat their humble store. But one day their teacher seeking, Spake the elder one full clear, "Tell us, Father, what fair infant Doth so oft to us appear?" Then the priest replied in accents Full of tender, loving care— "Son, I know not him you speak of Who with thee thy task doth share." But they came again unto him Day by day, with urgent word, And it was with deepest wonder That their simple tale he heard. And he asked—"Of what sort is he?" And they answered him again— "Father, he is clad in raiment Seamless and without a stain!" "But whence cometh he?" replying Spoke the priest in accents mild; And they answered, "From the altar, As it were, descends the child. "And we asked him then to share With us of our milk and bread; And he doth, right willingly;" This is what the children said. And the priest was full of wonder; To the children then spake he— "Are there marks whereby to know him If mine eyes the child should see?" "Yes, my father, yes, he beareth In his hands and in his feet Wounds that pierce his tender body." These the words that they repeat. "From his hands the crimson liquid, On the bread he taketh, flows Till beneath his touch it blusheth Like the deep heart of the rose!" Then with awe replied their master— "O my sons, list unto me! Know it is the sweet Child Jesus The Holy One, that you did see! "When again he cometh to you, With these words your greeting be: 'Thou hast breakfasted with us, Grant we three may sup with Thee!'" Then the children did his bidding; Sweetly then the Child did say, "Be it so, on Thursday next; Be it on Ascension Day!" On that day they came rejoicing, But they brought nor milk nor bread; Served they at the Mass right gladly; "Pax Vobiscum," then was said— But they still knelt on, unheeding, Thus they fell in Christ asleep; Master, children, with their Savior Then his marriage-feast did keep! |
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