LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES(传奇和抒情歌谣2)

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LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
1
LEGENDS AND
LYRICS - SECOND
SERIES
by Adelaide Ann Proctor
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
2
VERSE: A LEGEND OF
PROVENCE
The lights extinguished, by the hearth I leant, Half weary with a
listless discontent. The flickering giant-shadows, gathering near, Closed
round me with a dim and silent fear. All dull, all dark; save when the
leaping flame, Glancing, lit up a Picture's ancient frame. Above the hearth
it hung. Perhaps the night, My foolish tremors, or the gleaming light,
Lent power to that Portrait dark and quaint - A Portrait such as Rembrandt
loved to paint - The likeness of a Nun. I seemed to trace A world of
sorrow in the patient face, In the thin hands folded across her breast - Its
own and the room's shadow hid the rest. I gazed and dreamed, and the dull
embers stirred, Till an old legend that I once had heard Came back to me;
linked to the mystic gloom Of that dark Picture in the ghostly room. In the
far south, where clustering vines are hung; Where first the old chivalric
lays were sung, Where earliest smiled that gracious child of France, Angel
and knight and fairy, called Romance, I stood one day. The warm blue
June was spread Upon the earth; blue summer overhead, Without a cloud
to fleck its radiant glare, Without a breath to stir its sultry air. All still, all
silent, save the sobbing rush Of rippling waves, that lapsed in silver hush
Upon the beach; where, glittering towards the strand, The purple
Mediterranean kissed the land.
All still, all peaceful; when a convent chime Broke on the mid-day
silence for a time, Then trembling into quiet, seemed to cease, In deeper
silence and more utter peace. So as I turned to gaze, where gleaming white,
Half hid by shadowy trees from passers' sight, The Convent lay, one who
had dwelt for long In that fair home of ancient tale and song, Who knew
the story of each cave and hill, And every haunting fancy lingering still
Within the land, spake thus to me, and told The Convent's treasured
Legend, quaint and old:
Long years ago, a dense and flowering wood, Still more concealed
where the white convent stood, Borne on its perfumed wings the title came:
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
3
"Our Lady of the Hawthorns" is its name. Then did that bell, which still
rings out to-day, Bid all the country rise, or eat, or pray. Before that
convent shrine, the haughty knight Passed the lone vigil of his perilous
fight; For humbler cottage strife or village brawl, The Abbess listened,
prayed, and settled all. Young hearts that came, weighed down by love or
wrong, Left her kind presence comforted and strong. Each passing pilgrim,
and each beggar's right Was food, and rest, and shelter for the night. But,
more than this, the Nuns could well impart The deepest mysteries of the
healing art; Their store of herbs and simples was renowned, And held in
wondering faith for miles around. Thus strife, love, sorrow, good and evil
fate, Found help and blessing at the convent gate.
Of all the nuns, no heart was half so light, No eyelids veiling glances
half as bright, No step that glided with such noiseless feet, No face that
looked so tender or so sweet, No voice that rose in choir so pure, so clear,
No heart to all the others half so dear, So surely touched by others' pain or
woe, (Guessing the grief her young life could not know,) No soul in
childlike faith so undefiled, As Sister Angela's, the "Convent Child." For
thus they loved to call her. She had known No home, no love, no kindred,
save their own. An orphan, to their tender nursing given, Child, plaything,
pupil, now the Bride of Heaven. And she it was who trimmed the lamp's
red light That swung before the altar, day and night; Her hands it was
whose patient skill could trace The finest broidery, weave the costliest lace;
But most of all, her first and dearest care, The office she would never miss
or share, Was every day to weave fresh garlands sweet, To place before the
shrine at Mary's feet. Nature is bounteous in that region fair, For even
winter has her blossoms there. Thus Angela loved to count each feast the
best, By telling with what flowers the shrine was dressed. In pomp
supreme the countless Roses passed, Battalion on battalion thronging fast,
Each with a different banner, flaming bright, Damask, or striped, or
crimson, pink, or white, Until they bowed before a newborn queen, And
the pure virgin Lily rose serene. Though Angela always thought the
Mother blest Must love the time of her own hawthorn best, Each evening
through the year, with equal, care, She placed her flowers; then kneeling
down in prayer, As their faint perfume rose before the shrine, So rose her
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
4
thoughts, as pure and as divine. She knelt until the shades grew dim
without, Till one by one the altar lights shone out, Till one by one the
Nuns, like shadows dim, Gathered around to chant their vesper hymn; Her
voice then led the music's winged flight, And "Ave, Maris Stella" filled the
night. But wherefore linger on those days of peace? When storms draw
near, then quiet hours must cease. War, cruel war, defaced the land, and
came So near the convent with its breath of flame, That, seeking shelter,
frightened peasants fled, Sobbing out tales of coming fear and dread, Till
after a fierce skirmish, down the road, One night came straggling soldiers,
with their load Of wounded, dying comrades; and the band, Half pleading
yet as if they could command, Summoned the trembling Sisters, craved
their care, Then rode away, and left the wounded there. But soon
compassion bade all fear depart. And bidding every Sister do her part,
Some prepare simples, healing salves, or bands, The Abbess chose the
more experienced hands, To dress the wounds needing most skilful care;
Yet even the youngest Novice took her share. To Angela, who had but
ready will And tender pity, yet no special skill, Was given the charge of a
young foreign knight, Whose wounds were painful, but whose danger
slight. Day after day she watched beside his bed, And first in hushed
repose the hours fled: His feverish moans alone the silence stirred, Or her
soft voice, uttering some pious word. At last the fever left him; day by day
The hours, no longer silent, passed away. What could she speak of? First,
to still his plaints, She told him legends of the martyred Saints; Described
the pangs, which, through God's plenteous grace, Had gained their souls
so high and bright a place. This pious artifice soon found success - Or so
she fancied--for he murmured less. So she described the glorious pomp
sublime, In which the chapel shone at Easter time, The Banners,
Vestments, gold, and colours bright, Counted how many tapers gave their
light; Then, in minute detail went on to say, How the High Altar looked on
Christmas-day: The kings and shepherds, all in green and red, And a bright
star of jewels overhead. Then told the sign by which they all had seen,
How even nature loved to greet her Queen, For, when Our Lady's last
procession went Down the long garden, every head was bent, And, rosary
in hand, each Sister prayed; As the long floating banners were displayed,
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
5
They struck the hawthorn boughs, and showers and showers Of buds and
blossoms strewed her way with flowers. The Knight unwearied listened;
till at last, He too described the glories of his past; Tourney, and joust, and
pageant bright and fair, And all the lovely ladies who were there. But half
incredulous she heard. Could this - This be the world? this place of love
and bliss! Where then was hid the strange and hideous charm, That never
failed to bring the gazer harm? She crossed herself, yet asked, and listened
still, And still the knight described with all his skill The glorious world of
joy, all joys above, Transfigured in the golden mist of love. Spread, spread
your wings, ye angel guardians bright, And shield these dazzling phantoms
from her sight! But no; days passed, matins and vespers rang, And still the
quiet Nuns toiled, prayed, and sang, And never guessed the fatal, coiling
net Which every day drew near, and nearer yet, Around their darling; for
she went and came About her duties, outwardly the same. The same? ah,
no! even when she knelt to pray, Some charmed dream kept all her heart
away. So days went on, until the convent gate Opened one night. Who
durst go forth so late? Across the moonlit grass, with stealthy tread, Two
silent, shrouded figures passed and fled. And all was silent, save the
moaning seas, That sobbed and pleaded, and a wailing breeze That sighed
among the perfumed hawthorn trees.
What need to tell that dream so bright and brief, Of joy unchequered
by a dread of grief? What need to tell how all such dreams must fade,
Before the slow, foreboding, dreaded shade, That floated nearer, until
pomp and pride, Pleasure and wealth, were summoned to her side. To bid,
at least, the noisy hours forget, And clamour down the whispers of regret.
Still Angela strove to dream, and strove in vain; Awakened once, she could
not sleep again. She saw, each day and hour, more worthless grown The
heart for which she cast away her own; And her soul learnt, through
bitterest inward strife, The slight, frail love for which she wrecked her life,
The phantom for which all her hope was given, The cold bleak earth for
which she bartered heaven! But all in vain; would even the tenderest heart
Now stoop to take so poor an outcast's part?
Years fled, and she grew reckless more and more, Until the humblest
peasant closed his door, And where she passed, fair dames, in scorn and
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
6
pride, Shuddered, and drew their rustling robes aside. At last a yearning
seemed to fill her soul, A longing that was stronger than control: Once
more, just once again, to see the place That knew her young and innocent;
to retrace The long and weary southern path; to gaze Upon the haven of
her childish days; Once more beneath the convent roof to lie; Once more
to look upon her home--and die! Weary and worn--her comrades, chill
remorse And black despair, yet a strange silent force Within her heart, that
drew her more and more - Onward she crawled, and begged from door to
door. Weighed down with weary days, her failing strength Grew less each
hour, till one day's dawn at length, As first its rays flooded the world with
light, Showed the broad waters, glittering blue and bright, And where,
amid the leafy hawthorn wood, Just as of old the quiet cloister stood.
Would any know her? Nay, no fear. Her face Had lost all trace of youth,
of joy, of grace, Of the pure happy soul they used to know - The novice
Angela--so long ago. She rang the convent bell. The well-known sound
Smote on her heart, and bowed her to the ground, And she, who had not
wept for long dry years, Felt the strange rush of unaccustomed tears;
Terror and anguish seemed to check her breath, And stop her heart. Oh
God! could this be death? Crouching against the iron gate, she laid Her
weary head against the bars, and prayed: But nearer footsteps drew, then
seemed to wait: And then she heard the opening of the grate, And saw the
withered face, on which awoke Pity and sorrow, as the portress spoke, And
asked the stranger's bidding: "Take me in," She faltered, "Sister Monica,
from sin, And sorrow, and despair, that will not cease; Oh, take me in, and
let me die in peace!" With soothing words the Sister bade her wait, Until
she brought the key to unbar the gate. The beggar tried to thank her as she
lay, And heard the echoing footsteps die away. But what soft voice was
that which sounded near, And stirred strange trouble in her heart to hear?
She raised her head; she saw--she seemed to know - A face that came from
long, long years ago: Herself; yet not as when she fled away, The young
and blooming novice, fair and gay, But a grave woman, gentle and serene:
The outcast knew it--WHAT SHE MIGHT HAVE BEEN. But, as she
gazed and gazed, a radiance bright Filled all the place with strange and
sudden light; The Nun was there no longer, but instead, A figure with a
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
7
circle round its head, A ring of glory; and a face, so meek, So soft, so
tender . . . Angela strove to speak, And stretched her hands out, crying,
"Mary mild, Mother of mercy, help me!--help your child!" And Mary
answered, "From thy bitter past, Welcome, my child! oh, welcome home at
last! I filled thy place. Thy flight is known to none, For all thy daily
duties I have done; Gathered thy flowers, and prayed, and sung, and slept;
Didst thou not know, poor child, THY PLACE WAS KEPT? Kind hearts
are here; yet would the tenderest one Have limits to its mercy: God has
none. And man's forgiveness may be true and sweet, But yet he stoops to
give it. More complete Is Love that lays forgiveness at thy feet, And
pleads with thee to raise it. Only Heaven Means CROWNED, not
VANQUISHED, when it says 'Forgiven!'" Back hurried Sister Monica; but
where Was the poor beggar she left lying there? Gone; and she searched in
vain, and sought the place For that wan woman with the piteous face: But
only Angela at the gateway stood, Laden with hawthorn blossoms from the
wood. And never did a day pass by again, But the old portress, with a sigh
of pain, Would sorrow for her loitering: with a prayer That the poor
beggar, in her wild despair, Might not have come to any ill; and when She
ended, "God forgive her!" humbly then Did Angela bow her head, and say
"Amen!" How pitiful her heart was! all could trace Something that
dimmed the brightness of her face After that day, which none had seen
before; Not trouble--but a shadow--nothing more.
Years passed away. Then, one dark day of dread Saw all the sisters
kneeling round a bed, Where Angela lay dying; every breath Struggling
beneath the heavy hand of death. But suddenly a flush lit up her cheek,
She raised her wan right hand, and strove to speak. In sorrowing love they
listened; not a sound Or sigh disturbed the utter silence round. The very
tapers' flames were scarcely stirred, In such hushed awe the sisters knelt
and heard. And through that silence Angela told her life: Her sin, her flight;
the sorrow and the strife, And the return; and then clear, low and calm,
"Praise God for me, my sisters;" and the psalm Rang up to heaven, far and
clear and wide, Again and yet again, then sank and died; While her white
face had such a smile of peace, They saw she never heard the music cease;
And weeping sisters laid her in her tomb, Crowned with a wreath of
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
8
perfumed hawthorn bloom.
And thus the Legend ended. It may be Something is hidden in the
mystery, Besides the lesson of God's pardon shown, Never enough
believed, or asked, or known. Have we not all, amid life's petty strife,
Some pure ideal of a noble life That once seemed possible? Did we not
hear The flutter of its wings, and feel it near, And just within our reach?
It was. And yet We lost it in this daily jar and fret, And now live idle in a
vague regret. But still OUR PLACE IS KEPT, and it will wait, Ready for
us to fill it, soon or late: No star is ever lost we once have seen, We always
may be what we might have been. Since Good, though only thought, has
life and breath, God's life--can always be redeemed from death; And evil,
in its nature, is decay, And any hour can blot it all away; The hopes that
lost in some far distance seem, May be the truer life, and this the dream.
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
9
VERSE: ENVY
He was the first always: Fortune Shone bright in his face. I fought
for years; with no effort He conquered the place: We ran; my feet were all
bleeding, But he won the race.
Spite of his many successes Men loved him the same; My one pale ray
of good fortune Met scoffing and blame. When we erred, they gave him
pity, But me--only shame.
My home was still in the shadow, His lay in the sun: I longed in vain:
what he asked for It straightway was done. Once I staked all my heart's
treasure, We played--and he won.
Yes; and just now I have seen him, Cold, smiling, and blest, Laid in his
coffin. God help me! While he is at rest, I am cursed still to live:- even
Death loved him the best.
LEGENDS AND LYRICS - SECOND SERIES
10
VERSE: OVER THE
MOUNTAIN
Like dreary prison walls The stern grey mountains rise, Until their
topmost crags Touch the far gloomy skies: One steep and narrow path
Winds up the mountain's crest, And from our valley leads Out to the
golden West.
I dwell here in content, Thankful for tranquil days; And yet, my eyes
grow dim, As still I gaze and gaze Upon that mountain pass, That leads--or
so it seems - To some far happy land, Known in a world of dreams.
And as I watch that path Over the distant hill, A foolish longing comes
My heart and soul to fill, A painful, strange desire To break some weary
bond, A vague unuttered wish For what might lie beyond!
In that far world unknown, Over that distant hill, May dwell the loved
and lost, Lost--yet beloved still; I have a yearning hope, Half longing, and
half pain, That by that mountain pass They may return again.
Space may keep friends apart, Death has a mighty thrall; There is
another gulf Harder to cross than all; Yet watching that far road, My heart
beats full and fast - If they should come once more, If they should come at
last!
See, down the mountain side The silver vapours creep; They hide the
rocky cliffs. They hide the craggy steep, They hide the narrow path That
comes across the hill - Oh, foolish longing, cease, Oh, beating Heart, be
still!
摘要：

LEGENDSANDLYRICS-SECONDSERIES1LEGENDSANDLYRICS-SECONDSERIESbyAdelaideAnnProctorLEGENDSANDLYRICS-SECONDSERIES2VERSE:ALEGENDOFPROVENCEThelightsextinguished,bythehearthIleant,Halfwearywithalistlessdiscontent.Theflickeringgiant-shadows,gatheringnear,Closedroundmewithadimandsilentfear.Alldull,alldark;sav...

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