قراءة كتاب Lays and legends (Second Series)
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 4
own garland—ivy, vine,—
Giving to man the carver's dream,
In sight of men a certain sign—
And all day long the workers plied.
"The church shall finished be," we cried,
"And consecrate by Easter-tide."
Our church! It was so fair, so dear,
So fit a church to praise God in!
It had such show of carven gear,
Such chiselled work, without, within!
Such marble for the steps and floor,
Such window-jewels and such store
Of gold and gems the altar bore!
Each stone by loving hands was hewn,
The hammers made a merry tune
In winter dusk and summer dawn.
Love built the house, but gold had paid
For that wherewith the house was made.
"Would love had given all!" we said.
But poor in all save love were we,
And he was poor in all save gold
Who gave the gold. By usury
Were gained his riches manifold.
We knew that? If we knew, we thought
'Tis good if men do good in aught,
And by good works may heaven be bought!
At last the echo died in air
Of the last stroke. The silence then
Passed in to fill the church, left bare
Of the loving voice of Christian men.
The silence saddened all the sun,
So gladly was our work begun.
Now all that happy work was done.
Did any voices in the night
Call through those arches? Were there wings
That swept between the pillars white—
The priests who watched the relics heard
Wing-whispers—not of bat or bird—
And moan of inarticulate word.
Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air
Adorned our church, and there were borne
Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair
To grace the consecration morn.
Then round our church trooped knight and dame;
Within, alone, the bishop came,
And the twelve candles leaped to flame.
Then round our church the bishop went
With all his priests—a brave array.
There was no sign nor portent sent
As, glad at heart, he went his way,
Sprinkling the holy water round
Three times on walls and crowd and ground
Within the churchyard's sacred bound.
Then—but ye know the function's scope
At consecration—all the show
Of torch and incense, stole and cope;
Before the bishop—how they bear
The lighted tapers, flaming fair,
Blown back by the sweet wavering air.
The bishop, knocking at the door,
The deacon answering from within,
"Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure
The King of Glory shall come in"—
The bishop passed in with the choir.
Thank God for this—our soul's desire,
Our altar, meet for heaven's fire!
The bishop, kneeling in his place
Where our bright windows made day dim,
With all heaven's glory in his face,
Began the consecration hymn:
"Veni," he sang, in clear strong tone.
Then—on the instant—song was done,
Its very echo scattered—gone!
For, as the bishop's voice rang clear,
Another voice rang clearer still—
A voice wherein the soul could hear
And sudden breathless silence fell
On all the church. And I wot well
There are such silences in hell.
Taper and torch died down—went out—
And all our church grew dark and cold,
And deathly odours crept about,
And chill, as of the churchyard mould;
And every flower drooped its head,
And all the rose's leaves were shed,
And all the lilies dropped down dead.
There, in the bishop's chair, we saw—
How can I tell you? Memories shrink
To mix anew the cup of awe
We shuddering mortals had to drink.
What was it? There! The shape that stood
Before the altar and the rood—
It was not human flesh and blood!
A light more bright than any sun,
A shade more dark than any night,
A shape that human shape was none,
And, like an infernal trumpet sound,
Rang through the church's hush profound
A voice. We listened horror-bound.
"Venio! Cease, cease to consecrate!
Love built the church, but it is mine!
'Tis built of stone hewn out by hate,
Cemented by man's blood divine.
Whence came the gold that paid for this?
From pillage of the poor, I wis—
That gold was mine, and mine this is!
"Your King has cursed the usurer's gold,
He gives it to me for my fee!
Your church is builded, but behold
Your church is fair for me—for me!
Who robs the poor to me is given;
Impenitent and unforgiven,