APOSTASY
This last denial of my faith,
Thou, solemn Priest, hast
heard;
And, though upon my bed
of death,
I call not back a word.
Point not to thy Madonna,
Priest,--
Thy sightless saint of stone;
She cannot, from this burning
breast,
Wring one repentant moan.
Thou say'st, that when a
sinless child,
I duly bent the knee,
And prayed to what in marble
smiled
Cold, lifeless, mute, on
me.
I did. But listen! Children
spring
Full soon to riper youth;
And, for Love's vow and
Wedlock's ring,
I sold my early truth.
'Twas not a grey, bare head,
like thine,
Bent o'er me, when I said,
"That land and God and Faith
are mine,
For which thy fathers bled."
I see thee not, my eyes
are dim;
But well I hear thee say,
"O daughter cease to think
of him
Who led thy soul astray.
"Between you lies both space
and time;
Let leagues and years prevail
To turn thee from the path
of crime,
Back to the Church's pale."
And, did I need that, thou
shouldst tell
What mighty barriers rise
To part me from that dungeon-cell,
Where my loved Walter lies?
And, did I need that thou
shouldst taunt
My dying hour at last,
By bidding this worn spirit
pant
No more for what is past?
Priest--MUST I cease to
think of him?
How hollow rings that word!
Can time, can tears, can
distance dim
The memory of my lord?
I said before, I saw not
thee,
Because, an hour agone,
Over my eyeballs, heavily,
The lids fell down like
stone.
But still my spirit's inward
sight
Beholds his image beam
As fixed, as clear, as burning
bright,
As some red planet's gleam.
Talk not of thy Last Sacrament,
Tell not thy beads for me;
Both rite and prayer are
vainly spent,
As dews upon the sea.
Speak not one word of Heaven
above,
Rave not of Hell's alarms;
Give me but back my Walter's
love,
Restore me to his arms!
Then will the bliss of Heaven
be won;
Then will Hell shrink away,
As I have seen night's terrors
shun
The conquering steps of
day.
'Tis my religion thus to
love,
My creed thus fixed to be;
Not Death shall shake, nor
Priestcraft break
My rock-like constancy!
Now go; for at the door there
waits
Another stranger guest;
He calls--I come--my pulse
scarce beats,
My heart fails in my breast.
Again that voice--how far
away,
How dreary sounds that tone!
And I, methinks, am gone
astray
In trackless wastes and
lone.
I fain would rest a little
while:
Where can I find a stay,
Till dawn upon the hills
shall smile,
And show some trodden way?
"I come! I come!" in haste
she said,
"'Twas Walter's voice I
heard!"
Then up she sprang--but
fell back, dead,
His name her latest word. |
