ftM.^iH-1 iihxh PR 51 19.P3l"/" """"'">' '■"'"'>' 3 1924 013 531 862 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 3531 862 Hags of tije Satntlg ; THE NEW GOLDEN LEGEND. For remainder of flgnre, see opposite. ST. SIMON AND THE "FLESHLY POET" Jag0 of the (Sattttlg; THE NEW GOLDEN LEGEND. By WALTER PARKE, (the LONDON hermit), AUTHOR OF "songs OF SINGULARITY," " PEEl-S AT LIFE," ETC.; JOINT-AUTHOR OF "manteaux noirs": a comic oi'era. iVITH TWELVE PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS AND VIGNETTE By JOHN LEITCH. VIZETELLY &• CO., 42 Catherine Stnef, Strand, W.C ^ireface. ^ BOOK of this kind, however harmless in its purpose, may yet be judged by some people to need a few words of apology. Despite the wide toleration of the present day, there are still persons who take exception to the humorous treatment of any subject even re- motely connected with religion ; and others who see in every jocose allusion to Saints and Miracles a studied irreverence towards the Roman Catholic form of Christianity. No such offence, however, is herein intended ; the object of raillery being, not any existing religion, but merely the superstition of the Middle Ages. Even this has only called forth a sort of good-natured ridicule, much in the same way as the Nursery Stories of our childhood, which may still atford entertmnment, although we have long ceased to believe in them, or regard them with serious interest. The Saints of old were doubtless most meritorious person- age?, who did their best according to their lights, but their lights were not mir lights, and the stronger illumination of nineteenth- century knowledge has cast them and their miraculous doings into the cold shade of myth and fable. Even their boasted virtues have become obsolete, and modem ideas of duty are very much at vari- ance with those they entertained. To wear an iron belt night and day, to go without food for six weeks, to stand upon a pillar for twenty years, are not now-a-days the most accepted methods of getting to Heaven. But the records of the worthies who are credited with these extravagant feats of pious fervour have come down to us in such an exaggerated and distorted form that, while we may preserve some sympathy and respect for the Saints them- selves, we can have none for their unveracious or over-credulous biographers. Another objection m ay be that the Author has trespassed on the preserves of the immortal " Thomas Ingoldsbyr" If so, the offence is a trespass only, unattended with any illegal appropriation cf V PREFACE. property; the inimitable Barliam has been ah-eady too much iniitatetl, both as to matter and manner, and in the present " Lays " care has been taken to reduce this form of flattery to a minimum, by avoiding the style and metre most characteristic of that unique lyrist. Less apology is needed for parodying standard poets. Travestie has long been a permitted form of pleasantry, and it can be in- dulged in without any disrespect to the originals. Not alone the mighty Masters of the Past, but such modern bards as Tennyson, Longfellow, Browning, and Swinburne, stand upon too lofty pedestals' for them to be injured by any satiric shafts our toy-bow may let fly in their direction. The writer, however, in justice to himself, should not be too hasty to class this and similar effusions as mere "trifles." Such they are, no doubt, in point of literary value ; such they may appear to the practised critic who " polishes them off, " a dozen at a time ; and to the nimble reader who skips from page to page with all the agility of a mountain-goat ; but the author who has learnt by experi- ence that easy reading js not necessarily easy writing, is naturally un- willing to have his work thus lightly regarded. Tliere has always been a vague idea that humorous verse is something especially easy to manufacture — something that can be "dashed off" at idle moments, almost without an effort. This may be the case with a few specially- gifted geniuses ; but many years' constant practice in what is com- monly called "comic writing" (although it is in reality among the gravest of mental occupations), has failed to give the present writer that enviable facility, and he is much disposed to believe (paradoxi- cal as it may seem) that it is the novice who "dashes ofi " and the adept who finds it necessary to take pains. The " Lays " were originally published several years ago in the Dublin University Magazine, the subject being suggested to the Author by the late Durham Dunlop, M.R.I. A., at that time its Editor and Proprietor. The Hermitage, London, W.C. Nov. 2oth, 1S82. CONTENTS. I. — St. Simeon Stylites, .... " Stylites:" a Eallad after Swinburne, 2. — St. Macarins, 3. — ^Morte d'Edmund (after Tennyson), " Home they bronght the Martyr" (Ballai 4. — St. Crispin and" St. Crispinian, . 5. — St. Genevifeve, 6. — St. Denys of France (a la Bret Harte), 7. — Sister Beatrice (a la H. W. Longfellow), S. — St Rose of lima (a la Edgar Poe), . 9. — St. Smith of Utah (a la Walt. Whitman), 10.— SL Fillan's Ann (after Sir Walter Scott), "The Blue Brother " (Ballad), . II. — St. George of England, . . . " Ye L^ende of St. George and ye Dragone Spenser), .... 12. — St. David of Wales, .... 13. — St. Patrick of Ireland (after Tom Moore), " The Acts of St. Patrick " (Mr. O'BuU's 14. — St. Januarius, 15. — St. Catherine of Sienna (after Browning), 16. — The Voyage of St. Brandon, " The Joy Bird's Ode " (after Tupper), 17. — St. Gregory the Great, (after Version), 7 >S 22 29 31 38 53 59 65 68 75 78 90 95 102 114 122 128 138 154 159 168 ILLUSTRATIONS. St. Simeon and the "Fleshly Poet," Retnamdei of St. Simeon {Ti/le-paire), St. Macarius's Entomological Penance, A Medisvel " Six Hundred," . . . , St. Genevieve and the Demon — a French exorcise, St. Denys's " Premier pas," .... St. Fillan's Arm and Bruce's Army, . . , St. George and the im-Memorial Dragon, . St. David turns Water into real Milk," St. Patrick the " Varmint "-Killer-" 0,snakes!" St. Catherine's Journey — " Goods Carefully Removed St. Brandon's Whaling Expedition, . Threatened Downfall of the Pope, PACE- Frontispiece Vignelte i6 26 44 56 86 96 IC4 120 151 158 17^ MONTAGUE VIZETELLY, IS RECOGNITION OF OUR LONG FRIENDSHIP, AND OF MUCH GOOD COUNSEL AND ENCOURAGEMENT IN THIS AND OTHER LITERARY EFFORTS, THIS BOOK i0 cotiiailg ieiiicattb. ^rtlulig to tfje M^s, YE who love o'er dusty tomes to pore, To hear strange tales, and stories quaint and olden, List to some marvels that wfere told of yore In that black-letter Legend called the Golden, Whence Butler's " Lives of Saints " — immort:il works — Full of that piety called superstition By certain readers (unbelieving Turks ! ) Who take the " anti-miracle " position. To briefer lays these lengthy yarns I'll squeeze, Like floods of wine distilled into a chalice. And, whomsoe'er I may offend or please, " Extenuate nought, and set down nought in malice.'' LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. No. I.— ST. SIMEON STYLITES. |F all the ornaments to Christianity i Who shone like stars upon the saintly roll, I By treating earthly joys as sin and vanity, Spiting the body to preserve the soul ; Of all these mortifiers of the flesh, Most glorious as a human-nature-killer, With fame that time can only make more fresh St. Simeon stands— he stands upon a pillar. II. Son of a shepherd on the Syrian border, He had celestial visions when a boy ; At twelve he join'd some strict monastic order, And thence self-torment seem'd his chiefest joy ; He took to fasting six days in the week. And would the seventh, but he was prevented. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. He made himself the humblest of the meek, But still this devotee was not contented : In holy works yet more he would excel, A higher pitch of sanctity arrive at. And so he took a rope from oiat a well. And round his body twisted it in private. III. So clpse the saint his penal girdle drew, He nearly died a victim to tight-lacing ; The abbey surgeon had enough to do, The torturous cincture with his knife displacing. Would this suffice ? Oh, no ! the monk's devotion To greater lengths and deeper channels went ; Anon he deem'd 'twould be a splendid notion To fast throughout the forty days of Lent. So to a hermitage he next retired, Good Abbot Bassus left him bread and cup. And coming to him when the time expired. Found that he'd taken neither bite nor sup ! Most persons would have died of sheer starvation. No " fasting girl '' could go without so long ; Yet Simeon lived, altho' in great prostration. (O'! for a constitution half as strong !) IV. But, like the Corsair chief described by Byron, " His mind seenj'd nourish'd by that abstinence," LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. And tho' with woes his life he did environ, The spiritual profit was immense. " Practice makes perfect," and a fortnight's fast Into six weeks may afterwards be stretched. And Simeon found, as thus his Lents he pass'd, The holy happiness of being wretched. At first, 'tis said, he stood upright to pray, Himself of rest as well as food denying, Anon he sat, till. Nature giving way, He pray'd — like Pharisaic people — lying. V. Mortification, and the stern desire To quell desire, and stifle human feeling Grow with their growth, the zealot did aspire To further processes of soul-annealin§ ; So, on a mountain near to Antioch, In solitary torture next we find him, Chain'd up by heavy fetters to a rock. Till told that Will should be enough to bind him ; And then he hit upon a novel mode Of self-excruciation — 'twas no less Than taking up his permanent abode Upon a pillar in the wilderness. How strange to think, by voluntary loss Of ev'ry human joy, to serve his Maker ! And, to gain Heav'n, become a sort of cross Between Prometheus and a Hindoo fakir ! LAYS OF THE SAIMTLY. VI. Just think of what the holy man went through ; Fancy existing on the stony summit Of a high column, where the wild winds blew, And overhead, with nought to overcome it. No shelter or protection from its rays. The fierce and burning Oriental sun. And there to linger out the weary days With frequent fast, and penance ever done ! ' And - animated Duke of York, or Nelson, A Wellington upon a narrow arch, Clad in a cloak of skins, with nothing else on, Tho' rain may drench, or tropic heat may parch. VII. To make a trial of the saint's humility, The bishops sent him orders to descend And close his penance, so, with all facility. The martyr 'gan to this command attend ; But ere he could step off his sacred perch. Again to join the world he had forsaken. The much-admiring fathers of the Church Sent word that downward' step need not be taken. His heart, I can't help thinking, must have felt A shade of disappointment overspread it To see so fine a chance for ever melt Of quitting such a martyrdom with credit. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. VIIL Four years upon a pillar nine feet high, Three on another, rising just eighteen, Ten on a third, still nearer to the sky. The various seasons had St. Simeon seen ; And on the last, when death put in his claim, A score of years — in total, thirty-seven ! After all this — it -would have been a shame Had our Stylites fail'd to get to Heaven : You see he mounted thither by degrees, Ascending as his high ambition vaulted. Yet prideful thoughts he scatter'd to the breeze. Humbling himself the more he was exalted. IX. Such was his life ; 'twas pray'r, and pray'r, and pray'r, One long unwearied round of rapt devotion, So oft repeated his prostrations were He nearly had attained Perpetual Motion. One pilgrim had the hardihood to count The times the saint with bowing did adore. And when 'twas added up, the whole amount O'ertopped twelve hundred by just forty-four ! That is, for every minute and a half Twice did the martyr bend his spinal column, For sixteen hours a day — 'twould make us laugh, But that the subject is so very solemn. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Oh ! our degenerate days ! — a modern saint (If saints there -were) at such an exercise Ere noon-day would become so weak and faint, He fain must rest him till the morrow's rise ; And even then, a week or so would kill him : But saints of old were made of stouter stuff, And heav'nly strength did so sustain and fill him. Years pass'd yet Simeon cried not " Hold, enough ! " XI. Yet not supreme was his superiority To human weakness} flesh at last must fail ; The Golden Legend, on the best authority, Gives all his sufferings in close detail ; How loathsome sores his tortured limbs afflicted, And foul disease within his members sat. Till to one leg his standing was restricted, KvL&,for a year or more, he stood on that ! How many a horrid, noisome, living thing Beset him, and how one of these, out-hopping In presence of a certain Paynim king, To whom the saint was words of wisdom dropping - Pick'd up by him, became a gem of price, A gratifying change, and wondrous token ; But such particulars are far from nice, And modern bards must not be too outspoken. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. XII. Talking of bards, one day a pagan poet Approach'd the pillar, and began to sing ; The blessed Simeon could not choose but know it, So high the minstrel pitch'd his voice and string. This bard was Greek in sentiment and style ; A Venus-worshipper — profuse of curses On those who deem'd his ethics loose and vile : I give you a translation of his verses : — S T Y L I T E S. " Closed eyelids that hide like a shutter, Hard eyes that have visions apart,) The grisly gaunt limbs, and the utter And deadly abstraction of heart ; Whence all that is joyous and bright is Expell'd as both vicious and vain, O, stony and stolid Stylites, Our Patron of Pain ! " There'can be but warfare between us, For thine is a spiritual creed. And mine is the worship of Venus, On " raptures and roses " I feed ; Self-torture's thine only employment, We both feel the bliss and the bane, For woe will oft spring from enjoyment. Our Patron of Pain ! LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. " Can joys be of Martyrdom's giving ? Men seek them, and change at a breath The leisures and labours of living, For the ravings and rackings of death : To stand all alone on that height is An action unsought and insane, O, moveless and njorbid Stylites, Our Patron of Pain ! " There are those who still offer to Bacchus. There are men who Love's goddess still own, What right have new faiths to attack us ? And why are our shrines overthrown ? There are poets, inspired by Castalia, Whose lyres have Anacreon's strain, Whose lives are one long saturnalia. Our Patron of Pain ! " We sing of voluptuous blisses. Of all that thy rigour would spurn. Of "biting " and " ravenous " kisses. Of bosoms that beat and that burn ; To all that is earthy and carnal. Our votaries' souls we would chain. We breathe of the chamber and charnel. Our Patron of Pain ! " Oho ! for the days df sweet vices, The glory of goddess and Greek ! (For all that most naughty and nice is Most purely and surely antique). LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. O ho ! for the days when Endymion Thro' love o'er Diana did reign ! These, these were Elysian. St. Simeon, Our Patron of Pain I " We'll crown us with myrtle and laurel. We'll wreathe us in Paphian flowers, To be and make others immoral. We'll ply our poetical powers ; Our worship shall be Aphrodite's, To woman the wine we will drain, O, loveless and lonely Stylites, Our Patron of Pain ! " By the hunger thine abstinence causes, By the thirst of unbearable heat, By thy pray'rs which have very few pauses. By thy lodging devoid of a seat, By sleep that so meagre at night is, ,'Twere better awake to remain, Come down from thy pillar, Stylites, Our Patron of Pain ! " XIII. The holy man, it need not be remark'd, Turn'd as deaf ear to such lascivious singing As when a serpent hiss'd, or wild dog bark'd, Or raven croak'd around his column winging ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Immovable in body as in mind, He bore his life's insufferable tedium, It seems a pity that he could not find 'Twixt vice and virtue's height some " happy medium. XIV. So guarded was the saint against exposure ' To e'en the shadow of a shade of sin, No female foot might tread that blest inclosure, Even his mother could not enter in ; She came to see him after many years, But hallow'd barriers kept them still asunder, Maternal grief outpour'd in bitter tears. Three days, three nights, and then she died (no wonder!). XV. In pause of pray'r, the saint would shed his blessing On those who flock'd from each adjacent town. The throng in pious homilies addressing, But as his sermons were not taken down, We know not of the nature of his teaching ; He stood so high, they could not but revere him ; And if he had a fault, it was in preaching Over the heads of those who came to hear him. Folks used his image as a charm, in Rome ; Kings, queens, and princes sought his benediction, Both lay and cleric for advice would come : He gave to all who ask'd, without restriction. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. XVI. Goodness on earth, if carried to extremes, Will gift a man with superhuman powers (At least 'twas thus in olden times, it seems, Tho' not so in this sceptic age of ours) ; A saint was nothing in those saintly days, Unless he bade to Nature's laws defiance, And acted in a thousand startling ways. Quite unexplainable by modern science. Simeon wrought miracles, like other saints, By pray'r he made the desert bring forth water ; By touch he cured most dangerous complaints ; By sacred charms a leopard he did slaughter. XVII. Here is a miracle, as strange as troe : A dreaded dragon dwelt in that direction. So venomous, no vegetation grew Around its cave ; whose breath was rank infection. This monster ran a stake into its eye (How the mischance befell, we are not told), It crawled into the monastery nigh. And their its piteous tail it did unfold ; And blind and bleeding, moan'd in doleful case. But no one help'd it — all were too afraid ; And harmless lay three days outside the place. And then resolved to seek St. Simeon's aid. Thus did the dragon, to the column'd pile. Drag on its dragonistic length of frame, And tell— we know not in what tongue or style — Its occupant the reason why it came. !2 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. The saint was toUch'd, " Anoint the injured feature With mud," he said, and pra/d with all his strength ; They did, and from the optic of the creature, PuU'd out a spike of eighteen inches' length ! XVIII. One marvel more : a woman rashly drinking, Swallow'd by accident a little snake, Hid in the cup, the reptile doubtless thinking That it or she had made some grand mistake. For years this living incubus possess'd her. She tried all remedies, but quite in vain. And all the while, the, burden that oppress'd her, Each year increased its size, its victim's pain ; At last she sought the saint, in him confiding, Implored his aid in righting what was wrong, Her lips he did anoint, and out came sliding- A monstrous serpent of three cubits long ! Some critics stigmatize as mere inventions These deeds which possibilities forbid. And say that serpents of such large dimensions, They cannot swallow, if the woman did. XIX. But e'en the miracles in life he wrought Were less than those accruing from his death. As if the very atmosphere had caught Some Magic power from his parting breath ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 3 The odour from his body was a strong And sweet perfume — a fact most unexpected And wonderful, considering how long All laws of wholesomeness he had neglected. Birds, beasts, and men (and fishes too, no doubt) So loudly wail'd to learn the saint was dead. Their cries were heard seven miles, or thereabout, Hills, fields, grew sad ; a black cloud loom'd o'erhead, Wherein a seraph clothed in light appear'd. With other visions equally angelic. The Pope of Antioch, who seized the beard Of Simeon's corpse to keep it as a relic, Felt his hand wither'd, pulseless, stiff, and numb ; A dozen pra/rs were needful to restore it ; The body cured a man both deaf and dumb, As to its latest resting-place they bore it. XX. Like all great men, St. Simeon set a fashion (Carried by monks and -masons to great height) And pillar-martyrdom was still a passion, Tho' quench'd was his celestial beacon light, His followers were " Stylites," " Pillarists," " Air-martyrs," " Pillar-saints," and " Holy birds.'' They flourish'd long, but now no trace exists Of all they did and sufifer'd, save the words Written in monkish hist'ry's glowing page ; But Simeon's name stands prominent and single, And e'en in this unsympathetic age, His story well befits the poet's jingle. 14 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. So runs St. Simeon's tale ; if aught too large Therein appears for modern faith to swallow, Dear reader, pray don't lay it to the charge Of one who humbly seeks the truth to follow ; Think, rather, that in long-revolving time, Transcribers, vivid in imagination. To make their lofty theme still more sublime. May have infused some slight exaggeration ; Ev'n Alban Butler, with a charming candour. And simple faith in what he has to state, Owns that Stylites' pious deeds were grander That moderns should attempt to imitate ; This age would judge that, if indeed he bore One tithe the horrors that they say beset him, His madness we must pity and deplore. And blame the cruelty of those that let him. At least our moral no one can mistake — 'Tis that, to make secure our future bliss. To gain the better world, we ought to make Ourselves as wretched as we can in this ! No. 2.— ST. MACARIUS. j HE Saints on our list will be many and various, And drawn from all quarters, abroad and at home : The one we now take is the hermit Macarius, Who's held in particular honour at Rome Three weeks ere the sun enters into Aquarius, And reigns for the day in each cloister and dome. The " Mac " may seem Irish, or else Caledonian, But names are not always a question of race (Thus " George Psalmanazar " was no Babylonian), And old Alexandria in Egypt's the place Where erst our Macarius lived as confectioner. And dwelt in the manifold sweets of this life, Till, seeing how folks did in ev'ry di;-«rtion err. And how Man and Virtue are always at strife, He sigh'd, " I am sick of the world and its pleasures, I'll hie to the desert, and dwell in a cave. And while I am hoarding up heavenly treasures, I'll live on the money I've managed to save." For then it was common for clerical shepherds To weary of all men — including their flocks. And dwell far away, like the lions and leopards. In depths of the forests or holes in the rocks. l6 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. A custom, once started, will spread very quickly, Example's a tree most prolific of fruit ; Soon Egypt with eremites' cells was so thickly Besprinkled, their number was hard to compute. The monks, who subsisted by bodily labour. With pray'rs very many, and wants very few, Were ready to welcome our Saint as a neighbour, When he from society's evils withdrew ; So courteous were they to each neophyte brother, That one of these wearers of sandals and gowns Would leave him his hut, and move on to another ; Oh ! where will you meet with such kindness in towns ? For sixty long years the recluse did continue A life of such rigour, and hardship, and toil, That, tann'd in complexion, and harden'd in sinew. His aspect was rugged and dry as the soil. On pulse and raw herbs — (what a splendid digestion Is shown by the fact !) — seven years did he live ; All animal viands seem'd out of the question, Tho' lower in price than we now have to give. Three following years upon bread he subsisted, And that only four or five ounces a day, In Lent 'twas astonishing how he existed. So little he took till that Fast pass'd away. Tho' not a Stylites in mortification, Macarius oft did the body afflict. For fear that the course of devout meditation Might haply be.troubled by subjects less strict : *j^;-:- ST. MACAliroS'S ENTOMOLOGICAL MAETYEDOM. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 7 One day in his cell, 'tis asserted by Butler, Theanchorite chanced to be stung by a gnat ; No torture on earth could be sharper or subtler. Cried he, "A good hint ! I must act upon that ; In Scetd's wide marshes the wild flies are swarming, Whose stings even pierce thro' the hide of a boar — This body I'll yield to their fighting and storming. To drive out the sins that afflict me so sore." He went, and the insects attack'd him like savages, Aud caused an inferno of exquisite pain ; Six months he remain'd there, exposed to their ravages. Then thought it high time to wend homeward again. From head to foot cover'd with blister and swelling. The saint out of all recognition had grown, So fearful his aspect — so strange and repeUing, That only by voice could he make himself known ! Ev'n that, one would think, must have roughen'd to coarse- ness. And sounded untunefully frog-like and harsh. At least, people now-a-days suffer from hoarseness, Tho' far less exposed than the monk in the marsh. The names of the saintly are so multifarious. To keep them distinct oft surpasses our pow'rs. And forty miles oflf lived another Macarius — " The Elder " — ^pray do not confound him with ours. For he was " the Younger " — what aids the confusion Their dates in the calendar run very near ; And in the Greek Church they adopt the inclusion Of both of their feasts on one day of the year. B 1 8 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. These devotee name-sakes were sometimes together Seen gravely hob-nobbing their monachal cowls, But seldom ; for hermits, tho' birds of a feather, Dwell most in complete isolation — ^like owls. In ages of yore, as you know, my dear readers, Those demons, whose names now offend " ears polite," To gobble up souls. like omnivorous feeders, Walk'd boldly about, plain and ugly to sight ; Macarius oft by such fiends was accosted, But fearless and staunch, he upheld the good cause. And many a wretch who would else have been roasted, Was rescued by him from the enem/s claws. Once Lucifer came, with a scythe on his shoulder. To slay the good father, but could not prevail, In danger Macarius only grew bolder, And, when well resisted, the Devil turns tail. The saint once had taken — (the act seems peculiar^ The corpse of a pagan to pillow his head. Some fiends passing by growl' d, "This clerical /«? Call'd him — lo ! the voice they loved Answering show'd them where the foe Had the kingly skull removed. Rose a wolf of sixty years, Paw'd the head beneath his knee. Murmuring, " Here it is, my dears. Do not be afraid of me 1 " This did they, and took up the sainted king. Back to the regal halls of Hagelsdune They bore him, follow'd by the weeping wolf. 30 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Then with a loving care and brush of glue They join'd the body neatly to the head, The junction held, until a thin red rim Alone remain'd to show the sever'd place. St. Edmund's buried at St. Edmundsbury, And o'er his tomb such miracles were wrought As Maskelyne or Merlin far outdid : The blind received sight to look on him. The deaf could fancy that they heard his voice, The dumb could praise his virtues, and be heard. The stingy loosed the strings of heart and purse, And emptied coppers on his sacred shrine ; When once some sacrilegious burglars came. To filch, with fiendish felony of fist. The gold and silver of his sepulchre, A sudden seizure, strange, invisible, ' Clutch 'd them as tightly as galvanic shock, And kept them fix'd all night, and when the dawn, ShowVd down its golden beams upon their guilt. The men were found, were taken in the act. Quickly " run in," and tried by righteous judge. No option of a fine, but twenty years Ticket-of-leave-less, served they out their time, No. 4.— ST. CRISPIN AND ST. CRISPINIAN. |HE "Snobs," whom Thackeray so finely drew, Have brought that name to well-deserved con- tempt ; From which the honest maker of a shoe, Slipper, or boot, should always be exempt ; The latter kind alone the blessing share Of being under sainted patrons' care. Saints Crispin and Crispinian — for saints, Tlio' single men, in fame are sometimes double — Were born in Rome ; and no plebeian taints Dimm'd the " blue blood " that in their veins did bubble. Yet took they to a course which shocks gentility — Street preaching, sandal-making, and humility. Like certain modern teachers near at hand. These worthy brothers noted less the crimes That stalk'd so rampant thro' their native land Than others prevalent in farther climes ; Perchance they deem'd the Romans past all saving. And long'd more hopeful regions to explore. Perhaps to see the world they felt a craving ; At least they bade adieu to Tiber's shore, Roam'd past the Alps, and lastly settled down 32 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 'Mid Celtic warriors and Teutonic carles, At Soissons, afterwards the regal town Of Pepin, Clovis, Chilperic, and Charles, There set to work to civilize the Frank, To win men's souls, and break the devil's bank. All day St. Crispin and his brother wrought At missionary work, and when the night To other men repose from labour brought, They set to shoemaking with all their might ; For saints can't live, chameleon-like, on air (Tho' some, we've seen, have tried it now and then). And so they labour'd with a duplex care. Both day and night upon the soles of men. A mystic silence doth the legend keep On how they managed to dispense with sleep. Some pagans were converted by the aid Of soundly evangelic eloquence ; But more by reason that their saintships' trade Touched them thro' interest and outward sense- Their worldly souls thus indirectly reaching. Mere argument to such will bear no fruits ; And Crispin, in addition to his teaching. Gave each fresh convert a new pair of boots ; To be a sign that, by his Christian vow. He stood upon another footing now. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 33 'Tis thus that, 'neath the burning sun of Ind, Where sober Mussulman and Hindoo bask ; Our zealous missionaries often find Their pious labours but a barren task. So little can their rhetoric prevail With men in error's ways so deeply sunk, Except a few who, having tasted ale, Embrace the Cross in order to — get drunk ! How many " natives " to the fold have come Lured less by Christianity than rum ? So throve our saints amazingly, and drew The heathen Franks in thousands to their tether ; Up to their time no mortal ever knew Such proselyting virtue dwelt in leather. But native cobblers of the older creed. With indignation view'd the rival stall ; And making piety a cloak for greed, Denounced them to the Caesar, then in Gaul, Maximian Herculius, who referr'd The case to Rictius Varus to be heard. A man whose hate of Christians never slept. Who fain would have " improved away " the race, Rictius most gladly did the task accept. Soon stood the saints before his awful face ; Such tyrants were not wont to spend much time Upon the mere formalities of trial ; Their sentence was enough to prove the crime ; Vain was extenuation or denial ; c 34 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY, Varus resolved to stay the spread of error, By measures that should strike the world with terror. Such tortures then the Crispins underwent, My pen would hardly venture to reveal them ; But that, as Heaven its kind assistance sent. The persons most affected did not feel them 1 At first the holy men were scourged with flails, Yet were they neither injured nor afraid, Boot-brads were driven 'neath their finger nails, When lo ! an angel hasten'd to their aid ; The brads flew out, " retum'd to plague the inventors," And punish'd, not the victims, but tormentors. But Varus' heart was harden' d, so he gave The dreadful order, " mill-stones, there, for two ! Tie tO' their necks and fling them in the wave. And then see what their saintly powers can do ? " To hear was to obey, the hallow'd twain, Like kittens doom'd to drowning from their birth, Souse in the Aisne were flung, but rose again, And, while the miU-stones sunk in bed of earth, Clomb up the other bank, and reached the path, Far more refresh'd than damaged by their bath. Seeing that water but improved the saints (Saints as a rule did not affect the fluid), Rictius, who knew compassion's soft restraints No more than arch-Inquisitor or Druid LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Order'd a vessel filled with molten lead, And into this the blessed ones were thrust. Still, Salamander-like, they showed no dread (How strong the will is when the faith's robust !) And while the holy cobblers fail'd to die, A splash of metal blinded Varus' eye. In fiery furnace fed and fiU'd with oil, And pitch — the " hailing piick " of Fahrenheit — The saints were cast, to "shuffle off life's coil," And thereto, be annihilated quite. An angel saved them ere they could consume ; Whereat the blood of Rictius boil'd with ire, And dizzy with his anger and the fume, , He lost his hold and tumbled in the fire. Where, being made of common sinful clay. Not fortified with sanctity at all, He quickly perish'd, to the deep dismay Of those who saw, but could not stop his fall. Fierce at his fate, they turned their vengeful claws Upon the Christians, whom they deem'd its cause. " Off with their heads ; " the savage cry arose. The saints were seized, and — chmax unexpected ! — ■ The power that hitherto had baulk'd their foes No more their lives from martyrdom protected ; The axe was raised, they died like you or I. But marvels at their death commenced afresh. For tho' allow'd on open plain to lie. Vulture nor wolf would touch their sacred flesh ; 35 36 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Which, on that eve, two pious pilgrims found. And forthwith bore to consecrated ground. These monks were old and feeble, and the weight Of slaughter'd saints is of decided gravity, And how to bear them caused some slight debate ; When Providence, with most unlook'd-for suavity, Suspended gravitation's tyrant force, " Till,'' says the legend, "free in frame and limb, Each bearer felt not that he bore a corse, But just as if 'the corse were bearing him j'" No skiff had they, but on the river's verge The same mysterious hand had moor'd a boat. Without an oar, or helm, or sail to urge Its burden'd way, yet did it swiftly float Above the Vaves as smoothly as a dream, Although their course was dead against the stream. Here ends our strictly true, yet wond'rous tale, St. Crispin, as the elder of the firm, Became, and will remain, till time doth fail. The patron saint of all to whom the term Of " Snob " — respectfully pronounced — applies. Some able preachers have been men of leather, And, after Crispin, need we feel surprise Boots and religion often go together ? Reader, invoke his name whene'er a pair You wear for the first time, and if they hurt you. Think on the martyrdom our saints went through, All for the good of trade, and truth, and virtue. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. ■^J Our moral is, " We all have some weak part ; With some it is the body, some the head. Others the will, and some, alas ! the heart. With our good patrons 'twas the neck instead. And thus, tho' fire and water fail'd to end them, Beheading could at once to heaven sent them. No. 5— ST. GENEVIEVE. PARIS ! Paris ! when thy maskfed balls Fill with the young and gay, the fair and frail, To revel thro' the night in dazzling halls Where virtue certainly doth not prevail ; When thousands play-wards on the Sabbath flock, To see the last new " spicy '' bouffe or ballet, To drink in Hervd, Offenbach, Lecocq, And chuckle o'er each too suggestive sally : When pert cocottes, supreme in gilded vice. Along the streets their tinsel splendours flaunt. And all that's " naughty " is so far from " nice " As to obtrude in every public haunt, — Who would suppose thou hast for patroness A virgin Saint of wondrous holy living ? If she can know thee, yet protect and bless, Her nature must indeed be most forgiving ! I. St. Genevieve was nurtured in Nanterre, In the fifth century ; and 'neath the wing Of great St. Germain, Bishop of Auxerre, Her holy growth progress'd with rapid spring ; The angels of the skies. Rejoicing in her birth, Therein did recognise A sister come on earth ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 39 And SO they made a rare " Fete extraordinaire,'' They set the planets whirling In mazy dance, All over France, Like girls that follow Girling ; Angelic lights (So Giry writes) Jump'd thro' the clouds quite frisky. As if the Deuce Had broken loose, And taken — too much whisky ! II. To such a grand dlbAt, Her after life was true ; And meek, devout, and grave, And full of holy fire And spiritual desire Was sweet young Genevifeve. At fifteen years of age The Maid began to wage Her war with sin ; And training hard zxAfast (Especially the last), She grew quite thin ; And this is how she train'd, And stamina obtain'd Her cause to win : 40 LAVS OF THE SAINTLY. On Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday her fare Its narrow range Would never change. Consisting totally of praise and prayer ; On Thursday night A banquet slight Of stalest bread and beans the Saint partook of ; To quench her thirst, The very worst Of water — stuff none else could bear the look of. When Sunday came 'Twas just the same ; She took one meal so spare and thrifty, Tho' since the last Three days had pass'd. Thus lived the maid from fifteen up to fifty. III. No wonder by such deeds our Saint's renown Soon burst the limits of her native town. At home she was beset with sordid cares. Her mundane mother saw that her affairs Domestic suffer'd from the girl's neglect, To this Gerontia strongly did object, Forbade her going to church six times a week. And, on remonstrance, slapp'd her on the cheek : Such sacrilege unpunish'd could not go, That slap was answer'd by a harder blow ; For Dame Gerontia soon was stricken bhnd, And for two years in total darkness pined ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 4I Till, Genevieve, by prayer her sight restored. Her parents saw they could no more afford To thwart a child so back'd by heaven's grace : They let her a monastic life embrace. IV. A beldame " came down like a wolf on the fold," Stole Genevieve's sandals, so holey and old, And " toted them home," where this naughty old soul Became on a sudden as blind as a mole ; 'Twas fearful to witness her horror and fright. For blindness at best is a terrible sight j She took up the shoes, not to sell or to " swop " With travelling Jew or at pawnbroker's shop. But back to the owner, and own'd to the theft. And begg'd for the sense which her vengeance had reft. Kind Genevifeve never such plea could refuse — ' 111 give you your sight if you'll give me my shoes,'' And added, while pulling one on with a strain, ' Mind, Aad\. put your foot in it this way again ! " V. So fared many more 'gainst the Saint who transgress'd : One woman — no doubt by the demon possess'd— With deep curiosity ventured to pry Where closely concealed from humanity's eye. The maid had withdrawn to her sanctum sanctorum. The eyes of the spy felt a darkness come o'er 'em, And not till her saintship came out of her cell The sinner was freed from the terrible spell ; 42 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. That sanctified hand scarce her forehead had cross'd Ere came in perfection the sight she had lost. On other occasions did blindness descend On those who St. Genevieve chanced to offend, Whilst those, we suppose, who most pleased her, she blest With sharpness of vision beyond all the rest. VI. Success on earth, too well we know, Arouseth green-eyed jealousie ; " Tho' chaste as ice and pure as snow," From slander none are wholly free. Evil with good its war will wage, And till the Right its foe shall quell, Make earth the Devil's acting-stage. The battlefield of heaven and hell : So Genevieve, so good and pure, Was even branded as imposter. And ere she made her footing sure What pain and anguish did it cost her ! But virtue in the end must win. However sinners may resist. Anon the maid rejoiced in The love of every pietist ; Pupils were placed beneath her care, And nuns she train'd in holy ways. While godly people everywhere Pronounced her name with reverent praise : Far nations saw with great content The heavenly radiance that did fill her. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 43 And our old friend Stylites sent His hlessmg—^osied at his pillar. VII. The virtues of St. Genevieve, Her power and fame among the French, So made the devil fume and rave, He long'd her holy star to quench ; He did-^xA out her candle's light, And when she came, the church was dark ; She touch'd the wick, which soon was bright Relumed as by some heavenly spark. For Genevifeve possess'd the gift Of making fire by touch alone : Such privilege conduced to thrift, For May and Bryant were unknown, Tho' Lucifer, call'd otherwise " Old Scratch," Burnt freely, yet he seldom found his match. VIII. The devil he sat on a flask of oil, A practical joke loved he, And deem'd all mortals his lawful spoil ; So laugh'd to himself in glee, To think of the girl who carried the cruet ; *' O wouldn't she drop me and run if she knew it ! '' For he wore his best invisible coat ; But soon he alter'd his joysome note — 44 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. A little way off from his moving perch St. Genevieve stood at the door of her church, And Satan trembled in every limb, For Genevieve's eyes were fi^^d on him. " What hast thou ? " she of the child did ask, " Most holy abbess, some oil in a flask." Then Genevieve raised her saintly hand, The bottle in pieces smash'd. The fluid spilt on the thirsty sand, And the fiend flew off abash'd ; Theii merely by words the potent Saint Restored the vessel whole. Refill'd and blest, lest the evil taint Might peril the bearer's soul ; (How many of us unknowiiig carry. How few can behold, and resist. Old Harry !) And thus, the Evil One's game to spoil, St. G., with opportune blow, struck oil. IX. When in her honour they erected The church that still upholds the name Of Genevieve, an unexpected Misfortune on the builders came. Their liquor fail'd. What could they do ? For labour ever is athirst, And in such daily workers' view Drought is of evils far the worst. ST. GBNB'VIEVE AND THE DEMON. A FBEKCH EXORCISE. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 45 They came to HER ; she pray'd and tapfd A huge jar with her fingers fine, And lo ! " ane merveillous thynge there happ'd The vase at once was fiU'd with wine ! And till the fane was rear'd aloft That blessed " tap " was never out ; The workmen drank " as much and oft As they inclined." I greatly doubt If such a plan would prosper here With British workmen and their beer. X. But 'midst her many miracles of mercy and of might, The saving of her chosen town shines out with brightest light. When dreadful Attila the Hun, with all his savage clan. Who call'd himself the "Scourge of God," and was the scourge of man, Swoop'd like a vulture down on Gaul, and murder'd, robb'd, and sack'd. Poor Paris very naturally feared to be attack'd. A panic seized the city, and its burgesses resolved By timely fleeing to avoid the ruin thus involved. But earnestly their patroness restrain'd and calmed their fears. And bade them soften Heaven's wrath with penitential tears ; And tho' the Devil stirr'd them up to murmur and oppose. And even threaten her with death, she triumph'd o'er all foes; 46 LAYS OP THE SAINTLY. Her prayers prevail'd, the city 'scaped a climax so distressful, Whilst in the other parts of Gaul the Huns were Huns-sMc- cessful, Altho' their numbers seem'd to give their opponents no chance, The Romans, Franks, and Visigoths expell'd them all from France ; . To Genevieve 'twas very plain this miracle was owing. It set the flower of her fame " a-blowing and a-growing.'' XL Five years of safety passed, and then King Merovfee, with all his men. Long down before Lutetia sate. And nought could now avert her fate, For she was doom'd, by Heaven's decree. The world's " gay capital " to be, So Paris fell, but Genevieve Still like an angel did behave ; She could not save it from the Franks, But she could earn a nation's thanks. And blessings by her pious deeds Of ministration to their needs. Fell Famine, with its grisly touch, Soon thinn'd the population much. So off she started up the Seine, In neighbouring parts to gather grain. And here a miracle befell Which briefly I proceed to tell. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 47 XII. Beneath the stream there grew a tree, {How it came there perplexeth me), And on its branches gnarl'd and jagg'd Unlucky boats were often " snagg'd,'' And all their passengers and freight Involved in one destructive fate. The Saint, whose vessel near'd the spot. Was threaten'd with the common lot ; Two hideous heads of giant size Sudden from out the waves did rise. Such Spirits then were strong in water. These in their clutches nearly caught her. But she, defying their attacks, Pray'd and commanded that the axe Should to the tree's foul roots be laid. 'Twas done ; the monsters fled dismay'd. And from that day the stream was clear ; Nor did the spirit's re-appear. (P.S. This miracle, as some maintain, Occurred upon the coast of Spain.) ■ XIII. Soon back in triumph Genevieve was borne. Bringing eleven boats well cramm'd with corn ; To her it was enjoyment most intense This food to starving sufferers to dispense ; She even baked the bread herself, and drew Some out half-baked to feed the weaker few 48 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. (Under the rose) ; yet when the batch was finish'd 'Twas found the tale of loaves was undiminish'd. One other wondrous deed will I detail, Then haste to close, for space begins to fail. XIV. ' King Chilpferic 'twas vain to seek, For none knew where to find him. From Paris gay he had sneak'd away. And shut the gates behind hinj. That king had doom'd twelve men to die — We do not know exactly why — But France had then a full supply Of crime and immorahty ; The monarch had preferr'd to leave. Lest Genevieve (or " Jenny Veeve ") Should come and beg for a reprieve. Averting the fatality. She learnt the fact, and quickly went. The king's design to circumvent. And triumph in the good intent She carried out so trustily. She reach'd the gate, St. Martin hight, But there the warder impolite Her plea refused, still kept it tight. And growl'd at her most crustily ; But soon that warder changed his tone, When wide the gate was open thrown, ^ And unseen angels laid him prone, And made him bellow lustily. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 49 With mighty helpers such as these, What needed she the aid of keys ? St. Genevieve released with ease The culprits from their durance, And then she sought and found the king, And managed him to terms to bring, And give consent to Everything That wrought their lives' insurance. XV. No saint in all the calendar Carried her healing powers so far As Genevifeve, tho' no degree She held of surgeon or M.D. She cured the blind, as we havE told. And ailments half a lifetime old. And madness nothing could withstand, All melted 'neath her gentle hand. Those " shocks to which the flesh is heir " She never look'd on with despair, A child, who once to see her came. Was deaf, and dumb, and blind, and lame, And " past all surgery " one would think. Yet did the patroness not shrink From such a case ; her prayers were heard. Her sacred oil administer'd, And soon the child began to talk, Td hear, and see, and jump, and walk ; Nay, Genevi^e, 'tis even said. Could raise up those already dead ; so LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. As instanced by a child who fell With fatal force into a well, But whom the Saint's all-healing power Restored to life in half-an-hour. XVI. The virgin Saint was now grown rather passie (Most ladies are at eighty-three or so), And had she deign'd to stand before a glass, a Reflection sad that glass had had to show ; For beans and bread, and vigils, tears and fasting,. Are apt to fail — if beauty be their goal. But they develop what is far more lasting, A starving body makes a fatted soul, No wonder she was very often ailing ; When we observe how all her life she cried. Her own and other people's sins bewailing, It seems no wonder that at last she died. For she was ever prone to weep And weep with right good-will Awake she cried with sadness deep Asleep she sorrow'd still ; Her chamber-floor was like a sea. Its boards her tears did drench. She was a second Niobe Translated into French ; It could not, could not last Such anguish unremitting, Her sainted spirit pass'd To regions more befitting. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 5 1 She died, and then— O dear I What sorrow was created, The town went mad with sheer Grief unadulterated. XVII. It was about the year of grace 500 Her soul from clayey tenenient was sunder'd, Her heavenly passport was made out and sign'd Ere in the tomb her body was enshrined, But miracles began almost before Her soul had time to knock at Peter's door ; Cured were the mad and sick and blind and lame. All other physic quite a " drug '' became, And those who tried the panacea were fain To own that now " physicians were in vain.'' The wealth upon her shrine exceeds belief, Until it was " annex'd " by midnight thief : Upon the tomb where lies this best of women, 'Tis said there shines a lamp which needs no trimming. And fills itself — precluding care and cost — With sacred oil which nothing can exhaust, The oil's, too, ta'en for healing, yet the flame, Like Parsee fires, keeps burning on the same ; Well o'er the dust may miracles be rife Of one who did such wonders all her life, That Giry makes subtraction from their sum — " A cause de tincreduUU des hommes ; " Which candid statement proves such wonders owe Much to the kind of soil on which they grow. 52 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 'Tis certain, tho' Munchausen's self should weave them All tales are true — to those who can believe them. So now you've learnt the life and deeds Of Genevieve the good, Own that her merit far exceeds Most saints' in magnitude ; Her blessed memory all should hail With metaphoric laurel. Thus, reader, I've " adorn'd the tale,'' I pr'y thee " point the moral." No. 6— ST; DENYS of FRANCE (a.d. 272). N.B. — '/ke four following lays are composed in humble imita- tion of the popular bards of Transatlantica. IIHICH I mean to observe — And my statement is true — That for ways that unnerve. And for deeds that out^do, St. Denys of France was peculiar, And the same I'll explain unto you. Dionysius his name, And none will deny That Denys the same Does mean and imply ; And he fell in the hands of the pagans. Who doom'd him a martyr to die. 'Twas century third. As the history states. That Denys incurr'd This saddest of fates ; With one Eleutherius, deacon, And Rusticus, priest, for his mates. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Yet the woes that were laid On those Christians three, And the pluck they display'd Were quite frightful to see, And at first you would scarcely believe it. But the same is asserted by ME. 'Twas one of their foes' Diabolical whims. To the flames to expose The martyr's bare limbs. But Denys, for one, didn't mind it. He lay and sang psalms — likewise hymns. And then he was placed In a den of wild beasts With a preference of taste For martyrs and priests ; But Denys, by crossing, so tamed them. They turned from such cannibal feasts. Next Denys was cast In a furnace of fire ; All thinking at last He'd have to expire ; But the flame sank so low in a minute, No bellows could make it rise higher. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 55 And when he'd been hung On the cross for a spell, St. Denys was flung With his friends in a cell. As narrow and close as a coffin. And dark as H E double L. Said the judge, stern and curt, " Bring the captives to me." When he found them unhurt He cried, " Can this be ? We are ruin'd by Christian endeavour ; " And he meant to destroy the whole three. On the Saints, who had long Withstood such attacks. The foe came out strong With their tortures and racks. At last, by the Governor's order, Their heads were cut off with an axe. ' Do we sleep ? do we dream ? " All the witnesses shout ; ' Are men what they seem ? Or is witchcraft about ?" For quickly the corpse of- St. Denys Rose up, and began to walk out ' $6 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. He took up his head, Tuck'd it under his arm, And the same, it is said, Caused surprise and alarm ; Each eye on the marvel was fasten'd As if by some magical charm. Cut down to his neck. Like a flower to its stalk. The Saint met a check When he first tried to ^alk : But soon he felt stronger than Weston Or Webb — by a very long chalk. And angels, we're told. Led his footsteps along ; While heavenwards rolled Their chorus of song ; They led him two leagues from the city. To see that he didn't go wrong. I hope you'll believe That this story is fact, For I scorn to deceive. And refuse to retract ; For truth I've a great reputation, And wish to preserve it intact. ST. DENTB'i "PKEMIEE PAS." LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 57 Which is why I observe — And my statement is true — That lor ways that unnerve, And for deeds that out-do, St. Denys of France was peculiar, And the same I have proved unto you. No. 7— SISTER BEATRICE (a.d. uncertain). jHIS is the metre Columbian. The soft-flowing trochees and dactyls, Blended with fragments spondaic, and here and there an iambus. Syllables often sixteen, or more or less, as it happens. Difficult always to scan, and depending greatly on accent. Being a close imitation, in English, of Latin hexameters — Fluent in sound, and avoiding the stiffness of commoner blank verse, Having the grandeur and flow of America's mountains and rivers. Such as no bard could achieve in a mean little island like England ; Oft, at the end of a line, the sentence dividing abruptly Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author. I. In the old miracle days, in Rome the abode of the saintly, To and fro in a room of her sacred conventual dwelling, Clad in garments of serge, with a veil in the style of her Order, Mass-book and rosary too, with a bunch of keys at her girdle, Walk'd, with a pensive air, Beatrice the Carmelite sister. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 59 Fair of aspect was she, but a trifle vivacious and worldly, And not altogether cut out for a life of devout contempla- tion. More of freedom already had she than the rest of the sisters, For her s was the duty to ope the gates of the convent, and take in Messages, parcels, et cetera, from those who came to the wicket. Ever and often she paused to gaze on the face of Our Lady, Limn'd in a picture above by some old pre-Raphaelite Master ; Then would she say to herself (because there was none else to talk to), *' Why should I thus be immured, when people outside are enjoying Thousands of sights and scenes, while I'm not allowed to behold them. Thousands of joys and of changes, while I am joyless and changeless ? No, I can stand it no longer. I'll hasten away from the Convent : Now is the time, for all's quiet ; there's no one to see or to catch me." So resolving at length, she took off her habit monastic. And promptly array'd herself in smuggled secular garments ; Then on the kneeling-desk she laid down the keys, in a safe place, Where some one or other, or somebody else, would certainly find them. 6o LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. " Take thou charge of these keys, blest Mother," then mur- mured Beatrice, "And guard all the nuns in this holy but insupportable building." And as she spoke these words, the eyes of the picture were fasten 'd With mournful expression upon her, and tears could be seen on the canvas ; Little she heeded, however, her thoughts had played truant before her. Then stole she out of the portal, and never once looking behind her, Wrapp'd in an ample cloak, and further concealed by the darkness. Out through the streets of the city Beatrice quickly , skedaddled. II. Out in the world went Beatrice, her cell was left dark and deserted ; Scarce had she gone when lo ! with wonderment best re- lated- Down from her canvas and frame, there stepp'd the blessed Madonna, Took up the keys and. the raiment Beatrice had quitted and wore them. Also assuming the face and figure of her who was absent ; Became in appearance a nun, so that none could know the difference. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 6l Save that the sisters agreed that Beatrice the portress was growing Better and better, as one who aspired to canonization ; Daily abounding in grace, a pattern to all in the convent ; Till it would not have surprised them to see a celestial halo Gather around her head, and pinions sprout from her shoulders, That, when too good for this world, she might fly away to a better. Her post was below her deserts, and so by promotion they made her Mistress of all the novices seeking religious instruction. Such was her great success in that tender and beautiful office, Her pupils all bloomed into saints, and some of the very first water. III. Many a day had pass'd since Beatrice escaped from the convent, Much had she seen of the world, and it's wickedness greatly distress'd her ; Oft she repented her act, and long'd to return, yet she dared not ; Oft was determined to go, still she " stood on the order of going." Thus it at last occurr'd that her convent's secular agent Entered one day, in the house where the truant sister was staying, 62 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. But changed as she was in appearance, he did not know her from Adam ; Whilst he in his clerical garb was to her a familiar figure. " Now I shall learn," thought she, " what they say of my flight and my absence.'' And so she eagerly asked of the nuns and of sister Beatrice,. As of a friend she had known when living near to the convent. " Truly," the factor replied, " She is still the pride of our sisters. Favourite too of the abbess, and worthy of all our affection. Would there were more of her kind in some houses monastic I know of," Puzzled, and rather distress'd, then answered the truant relegieuse, " She whom I speak of, alas ! was less of a saint than a sinner. She fled from the veil and the cell, so surely you speak of another ? " " Not in the least, my child," the secular agent responded ; " Sister Beatrice, the saint-like, did not run away from the cloister. Mistress is she of the novices. Why should she go ? Stuff and nonsense ! " " What can it mean?" thought Beatrice, "and who is my double and namesake ? " So when the agent was gone, resolved she would settle the question. Off to the convent she went, and knocked at the portal familiar, LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 63, Ask'd for the sister Beatrice, was shown to the parlour and found a Counterpart of herself, as she was in her days of seclusion. Down on her knees went Beatrice — the why and the where- fore she knew not. " Welcome, my daughter, again," said her double, the blessed Madonna ; " Now I restore you your keys, your robe, and your other belongings. Adding the excellent name and promotion I've won in your likeness ; Be you a nun as before, but more pious ; farewell, take my blessing." Speaking, she melted away in the holy pre-Raphaelite picture. Again was Beatrice " herself," like Richard the third, d Iw Shakespeare, Growing in grace from that day, and winning the glory of Saintship ; While each of the pupils she taught, went to heaven as surely as she did. Such is the metre Columbian, but where is the bard who de- vised it ? Tenderest he of the poets who wrote in the tongue of (New)' England, Where the minstrel who sang of " Evangeline," also " Miles. Standish?" 64 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Alas ! he will never again pour forth his effusions pathetic, But his name and his fame endure, and this characteristic measure In honour of him I adopt, without any thought of bur- lesquing. Thus on the ear its cadence, like sounds from the labouring ocean, Breaks, and in accents mellifluous follows the thoughts of the author. No. 8.— ST. ROSE OF LIMA, PERU (a.d. 1617). j T was many and many a year ago, In a World they call the New, That a maiden there lived whom you may know As the blessed St. Rose of Peru ; And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than the penances she could do. She was a child, yet never a child Did holiness so pursue, By morning and night, and by candle-light In wisdom and grace she grew. And ever would strive to all earthly faults And pleasures to say adieu. An angel in beauty, she thought it was right To spoil it to mortals' view, ' She scratch'd it with briars, and burnt it in iires, Until she was known by few ; (O maidens whose charms you but live to adorn This never would do lot you /) But her fear of the world was more than her fear Of loveliness losing its due — Of tortures that thrill'd her through ; E 66 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. And neither the sackcloth she wore to her skin. Nor her spiky belt thereto. Could ever elicit the faintest complaint From the blessed St. Rose of Peru. When Love drew near with its honey'd words, And tenderly tried to woo, The name of wife and the joys of life She rigidly would eschew. She prick'd, for her sins, her head with pins, And the blood in streamlets drew. And tears they were spilt for her fancied guilt. By the blessed St. Rose of Peru. And oft she would fast, but to eat at last The bitterest herbs she knew, And all that was pleasant and good to the taste In horror away she threw ; She stripp'd her garden of all sweet flowers, And sow'd it with thorns and rue. And angels would come and make her one (In dreams) of their seraph crew. And oftpn the Fiend, in his beauty screen'd, Her spirit would fain subdue. But evil could only fail to prevail With the blessed St. Rose of Peru LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 67 And these are the reasons her fame would grow In the World they call the New, But youth wasn't past ere the wintry blast The flame of her life out-blew ; There issued a breath from the mouth of Death Chilling and killing the Rose of Peru. And many and many a year flew by In that World they call the New, While marvels divine were wrought at the shrine Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru. (I should beat my breast and be much distress'd If you call'd this part untrue.) But my teeth never ache but I think, as I wake. Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru ; And my corns never shoot, but the woes I compute Of the blessed St. Rose of Peru ; And so I decide my pangs to abide Like her who suffer'd — and braved— and died In the capital of Peru, The region they call Peru. No 9.— ST. SMITH OF UTAH (a.d. 1844.) I. SONG of the Far West, A song of the Great Salt Lake, of Utah, Nauvoo, Jackson County, and the new Jerusalem. Listen, individuals, communities, sects, nations ; I am (for this occasion only) a Transatlantic bard, None of your smooth court-poets of worn-out E.urdpta.n monarchies. But a bird of the backwoods — a loud-throated warbler of the forest ; My inspiration is the breath of the boundless prairie ; my mental food is the roll of the raging Atlantic. Rhyme ? — I scorn it. Metre ? — Snakes and alligators ! what is that to ME ? Libertad for ever ! I intend to sing anyhow — and all-how, just as I tarnation please. Universe, are you listening ? very, well, then ; here goes, right away. IL SMITH ! ! ! ! Smith the Apostle ! ! ! Smith the Evangelist ! ! Smith the Discoverer of the Book of Mormon ! His name was Joseph, and he was raised at Sharon, Windsor, County Vermont, U.S. IJIYS OF THE SAINTLY. 69 His parents were tillers of the soil — poor, but dishonest. When they wanted money, they took it ; horses, they boned them ; sheep, they annexed them ; But saints may spring from sinners, as a butterfly springs from a maggot. III. Angels ! heavenly visions ! ! In white robes, with crowns, harps, and everything accord- ing, Bless'd the youthful Smith with their presence beatific. He went into solitude, loafing in caves, backwoods, and lonely canyons. Those angels meant business ; thrice in one night they sought him. They told him all his sins were liquidated. Told him the history of the World {not according to Moses)' Told him the Red Injuns was one of the lost tribes of Israel ; Told him where to find the sacred book of the Prophet Mormon, Told him to bring it out, and make a good '• spec " of the business. IV. Leap, O my soul, every 22nd of September, For on that date Smith found the sacred volume ! Eighteen-twenty-seven — a year to be remembered ! ! ! Sheets of tin, with characters antique engraven — Such was the wondrous Book of Mormon. 70 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. From that prophet Smith profited, and became a prophet also. Mahomet, Brahma, Buddha, Confucius— Smith surpassed them all. Getting behind a screen, he dictated to Oliver Cowdrey (Smith was not a literatus, and couldn't have jerk'd it gram- matically). In eighteen-thirty, hurrah ! the glorious Book was publish'd. But carping critics of orthodoxy murmured " fraud ! " and "humbug ! " " Where's your authority ? Show us the original ! " Smith disdained to do so ; he and his friends had seen it. But nobody else has seen it, nor will they see it forever. Yet did Smith triuniph, and gather'd in converts like hay in i the sunshine. Virtue will ever prevail, as long as the world circumvolvulates on its axis. V. Huzza for the New Jerusalem ! At Kirtland, Ohio, Smith with his Saints located. Till, in March, '32, there came a band of Nonconformists, Seized Joseph the Saint, and Rigdon his mate, and gave them tar and feathers ! O my soul, boil, boil like a potato with indignation ! From county to county, and state to state, for years the Mor- mons were driven, Sometimes camping out 'neath the snow-cold stars of win- ter. At last they found a resting place— Clay county, in Missouri. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 71 Thither came Brigham Young — at that time Brigham younger. Smith sent him out to bring to grace those sdeptical down- easters, "Whilst Orson Pratt and Heber C. Kimball were missionaries in Europe. VI. In this world banks will break and promoters be call'd swindlers : This was the luck of Smith and his saintly companions — Lo ! the bank of Kirtland busted, the Mormons were clapp'd in prison, Not long afterwards they received this heavenly revelation — "Missouri's too hot to hold you'' — they "vamosed the ranche," according. VII. O, Nauvoo, city of Beauty ! Land of delight, fertility, promise, and .blossoming realiza- tions ! When I beheld thee my soul was enthrall'd, and danced a spirited can-can. Thither came 15,000 saints, and squatted in glory, And the desert blossom'd as the rose, beneath the smile of Smith. He preach'd the gospel, and got up a government-house and militia. Was mayor of the town, high priest, and commander-in- ' chief of the army ; 72 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. O, gloria / triumph ! bravo ! hosannah ! huzza ! halleluiah I (These are the words of a soul jumping out of its skin with felicity.) VIII. Once more " revelation '' came, and spake unto Smith the prophet. " The relation between man and woman is not only social but spiritual. The social is bounded by two, the spiritual knows of no limit ; Wherefore, O Smith, you may take what number of wives you think proper. Sanctifying them by sacred mysterious ' seahngs.' " (Redder, seekest thou further to know, then go and consult Hepworth Dixon.) But the cold hard world disapproved of spiritual marriage ; War rose up against Smith, and again, with his mates, he was cast into prison, " Revelation " helped them no more ; no, nor did, angels assist them ; But a gang of rowdies (a.D, 1844) broke into the prison, Haul'd out Joseph Smith and his brother Hyram, And with their too-true revolvers they sent them both to glory ! IX. Sinners make martyrs, and martyrS make saints (this is logic). Smith was a martyr, and mourned by the Mormons according. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 73 Especially Brigbam Young, who came in for his fortune and fixtures. In 1850 they established the .Salt Lake City, And two years later another great " revelation " set up spiritual wifehood, the glorious cause that Smith died for. Thus, like a beautiful tree, grew up the doctrine of spiritual marriage. Monogamy, bigamy, trigamy, quadrigamy, quinquigamy, and lastly polygamy— TiU, if you ask me, " How many wives has Brigham ? " I shall answer, " Go, count the waves of the boundless Atlantic ! =' X. They made Smith a saint — a boss saint — and was he not worthy ? Far more than the worn-out Saints of your rotten 'Eurifpia.n kingdoms ! Bully for Joseph ! my eyes fill with tears ; don't yours ? I admire Joe Smith — I a'« — I'U wrap up his memory in lavender, And if you love me, reader (as I'm sure you cannot help it). Go thou and do likewise. XI. Mourn for Smith ; mourn, mourn, ye peoples ! O songsters, bards of all times, climes, regions, and genera- tions, O warblers, tenori, bassi, contralti, and mezzi-soprani. 74 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. O Christian men of every land and language, O kings, priests, presidents, khans, kaisers, and subjects, O infinitlvely diversified inhabitants of this revolving kosmos. Sing, and sing, and sing, and keep on singing his honour and glory, Echo and re-echo forever the name of Joe Smith, boss Saint of the Mormons ! No. lo.— ST. FILLAN'S ARM. (A Lay of Scott-land.) jlARP of the North, that hangs, or used to hang, 11 " On the witch-elm that shades St. Fillan's II spring " (Which elm I know not), wake thy tuneful twang, And keep thy wires in order while I sing In verse of true Sir Walter Scottish ring ; And lest your Minstrel's strength should haply faint Glenlivat shall its inspiration bring ; Thus will we make the Sassenach acquaint With blessed Fillan's life, thy friend and patron Saint. I. If thou would^st view old Pittenweem aright, Go visit it by the broad daylight, For if the night were murky, pray How couldst thou ken that fair Abbaye ! And should it eke come on to rain. Thy pleasure would be turn'd to pain ; But when the golden sunbeams smile On ruin'd nave and barren aisle. When noontide rays enlivening fall On thistly floor and weedy wall, So that, thou need'st not break thy bones Or shins against the rugged stones. Then go ; but take a trusty guide Who knows the country far and wide. 76 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. And give him half-a-crown or so, To tell thee all that he may know ; But should he show thee Fillan's tomb Within some cloister's ivied gloom, Believe him not, although he swear. Because the Saint's not buried there. II. Breathes there the man who having read All that the Northern Bard has said, All the particulars supplied By travellers' tomes and Murray's Guide, Of Scotia's landscapes fair and grand, Longs not to see that favour'd land ? Oh, would that / could get the chance To view those regions of -romance. What pleasure to be climbing now Ben Dizzy's stern and lofty brow ! How sweet to stand beside the Frith That owes its waters to Loch Smith, To mark Bel-hangar's ruin'd pile, And lon-munga's charmed isle, Whilst in the distance can be seen The giant peaks of Ben Zoleen,* And, if the weather be not dull. The fragrant isle of Sneeshin-Mull ; And, floating like a mirage there, That phantom ship, the " Brig of Ayr " The writer will not guarantee the absolute correctness of all these names of localities, but he has carefully consulted the best authorities on the subject. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. -jf Sails where Loch Toddy's smile creates A beauty that intoxicates. Then view, my fancy, if thou wilt, Knights tourneying within Glen- 7///, Hear Roderick Dhu and brave Fitz-James Calling each other dreadful names, And see them chase, through bosky deUs, The hart that " in the Highlands " dwells. Oh, if some friend would pay my fare. How " like a bird " I'd wander there ! III. The meal was over at Pittenweem ; The monks had gone to their ceUs to dream. Or heavily sleep, as the case might be, Till waked by the bell at half-past three ; The Abbot had gone to his private tower. For he sat up till a later hour. And oft he would have his under-prior To sit and talk by the cosy fire ; For Abbots of old, you may suppose. Could do in such matters as they chose. And here, from the mill-stream's outer loch To the tippest top of the weather-cock. Good Fillan the Abbot ruled supreme — Such was the custom of Pittenweem. IV. The night was long, the weather cold ; A Minstrel, neither young nor old. Whose ragged coat and shoes in holes 78 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Wrung pity from those monkish souls, Entered the Abbey's lower hall. Whence, duteous to the Abbot's call, He brought himself and harp upstairs And 'gan show off his Scottish airs. It was a charity to bring Such warbler in the place to sing. St. Fillan gave him ample cheer And copious draughts of home-made beer. Till, while that inspiration work'd. This music from the wires he jerk'd : — V. BALLAD. THE BLUE BROTHER. 'Twas on Maxwelton's bonny braes (" Where early fa's the dew"). That at the set of sun I met A Friar of Orders blue. With sigh, and frown, and eyes cast down. His face was sad to see ; Some heavy care was settled there — Whatever could it be ? " Come hither, come hither, thou Holy Friar, Why dost thou look so blue ? " He answer'd stern — " I've yet to learn What that's to do with you." "Wert thou," I asked, "a baron bold. Who sought a hermit's lot. Because thy love so false did prove ? " He answer'd, " I was not." LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 79 " And hast thou fought in distant climes, Seen mighty cities fall, And wounded been a score of times ? " He answered, " Not at all." " And did thy true love follow thee. In page's garb disguised ? And when thou foundest it was she, Say, wert thou not surprised ? " " No true love ever foUow'd me Thus garb'd ; or if she had. At once, I ween, I must have seen Twasshe, and not a lad." "And did she, stricken by thy side, " In thy embrace expire ? " ' ' Good gracious ! no — who told you so ? He m\ist have been a liar. " "Or hadst thou wooed some ladye fair. And wast about to wed. But saw or heard that she preferr'd Another knight instead ? "And didst thou seek their trysting-place. And fiercely slay them both, And there inter both him and her ? " " I didn't, on my oath !" "Or didst thou quarrel with a maid, Who loved thee all the time. And seek, a hermitage's shade Far in a jforeign clime ? 8o LAYS OF THE SAINTLY " And did the maiden seek thee out, Dress'd like a pilgrim-boy ? And, having found thee safe and sound. Die, there and then, for joy? " Fire flash'd from that Blue Brother 's eye ; " 'Tis well," he cried, "for you. That I'm a Friar, else in mine ire Some mischief might I do ! ■" Why should I tell to such as thou The story of my youth ? My patience is exhausted now, Denying each untruth, ■" You're right, so far, if you suppose I've seen some woes and cares, But, mark you well, I never tell To strangers my aSairs. " The vesper-bell rang thro' the dell ; Abrupt he sped away. And not another syllable Did to this minstrel say. And tho' upon Maxwelton's braes Since then I've often been, I know not why, but never I Have that Blue Brother seen. VI. The Abbot praised the Minstrel's skill. And gave him siller — better still ; What wonder that such vagrant men, Encouraged thus, should come agen ? LAVS OF THE SAINTLY. 8l For Fillan's heart was warm and large, He never gave these folks in charge, And tho" the bagpipe made him groan, He let his torturer alone. Well used, I wot, were one and all Within St. Fillan's Abbey-wall ; Even the cats were fed on cream — Such was the custom of Pittenweem. VII. The virtues of a Saint-elect, 'Tis reasonable to expect To marvels will give birth ; And thus, when Fillan did transcribe The Scriptures — ('mid the monkish tribe Of books there was a dearth) — Forth from his hand (the left) there came The splendour of a mystic flame. Too bright to be of earth ; 'Twas Heaven that interposed, 'tis clear, For candles then were rather dear, And at the best burnt dim ; But by his hand's celestial light, St Fillan wrote both day and night — 'Twas all the same to him. Oh ! often when the gas is bad, I wish St. Fillan's Arm I had ; At once I'd bid adieu F 82 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. To paraffin and kerosene, And meters (save of verse, I ween). To moulds and " sixes " too ! VIII. Good Abbot Fillan, it appears, Ruled o'er the convent many years, Till, notwithstanding the esteem He won from all at Pittenweem, Tho' loved, respected, and admired. He from his post at length retired, And lone his hermitage he made In far Glenurchy's rugged shade — A desert valley wild and deep, Now used as pasturage for sheep, A vale so dark that people say There's nightshade there throughout the day ; There blooms the heather, green or brown, There grass springs up, and thistle-^/iJO/w, And there the fox by moonlight lies, And on his paw \h& fox-glove tries. And there the timid hare will ring The hare-bell whereof poets sing. And there the Scottish broom, when new. Sweeps clean, as brooms are bound to da IX. 'Twas there St. Fillan fix'd his cell. In saintly solitude to dwell ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 83 But why he from the world withdrew No living wight precisely knew ; To man no word would he let fall ; He told his beads, and that was all, Boon Nature gave him all he ask'd, Nor was she thus severely task'd. Simple his fare, he used to dine Upon the new-laid «^antine. The mountain ash was ready-made. And scarcely needed pepper's aid. For fruit there grew, profuse and fine, Pine-apples on each lofty pine ; His bread was earth's eternal crust, Water he drank, as all men must Who love St. Wilfrid, son of Law, And hate wine, beer, and usquebaugh. By Fillan's cell a fountain sprang, With whose renown the country rang. For in its waves the sick were sure To realise a perfect cure ; When duck'd within that holy pool. And then left out all night to cool, The imbecile in mind and frame Both hale and sensible became ; Whatever ills they went to quell, They always left St. Fillan's well — A well which every one must own Twas better not " to leave alone.'' 84 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Thus pass'd our Saint through life's decline ; He died, six-hundred-forty-nine. His relics, we may well suppose, Continually in value rose. But far beyond the rest did stretch The price his wondrous Arm could fetch, Till Caledonia's kings felt blest That such a treasure they possesst. XI. Ages had pass'd ; it was the day Renown'd in Bannock-Burn's lay. When " Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled," Knock'd England's projects on the head. That in his camp King Robert Bruce Did hold, according to his use, A public service to invoke Heaven's aid against the threaten'd yoke ; But first from out that proud array. He called the Abbot of Inchaffray. XII. " Go, fetch St. Fillan's holy Arm, Good priest of Inchaffray, For it shall be a sacred charm, To help our cause this day, And when the foe perceive its glow Perchance they'll run away." LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 85 The Abbot went, and quickly brought That relic of the Saint, In silver casket, fairly wrought With figures rich and quaint. The monarch then his pra/r began, But when the case was oped, Behold! that, sacred talisman Had, strange to say, eloped. Stolen 1 Such sacrilegious crime Our deepest feelings shocks ; Besides, they'd wasted prayer and time Upon an empty box ! XIII. Dreadful it was to see the Bruce ; His rage, I wis, had good excuse, And if he drew his sword to strike, Why, who would not have done the like ? " Woe to the wretch's guilty soul St. Fillan's blessed Arm who stole ! , 'Tis vain to intercede If e'er T find the culprit out. For such a crime, beyond a doubt, Is Fillanous indeed ! " None spoke — such words might well appal, Tho' purely innocent were all His trusty men in mail ; But certain witnesses did say That the old priest of InchafTray Look'd very scared and pale. 86 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Yes, he it was whose faith so weak, Had caused him hide that blest relique. Lest by its aid the foe should seek In battle to prevail. XIV. The King, tho' much inclined to swear. Resumed his interrupted pray'r. When lo ! what wonder's here ? Uprose the casket's silvern lid ; Then closed — upon my word it did ! Tho' no one stood a-near. It was the Saint, who did replace That severed Arm within its case, Unseen to mortal view ; And when again the lid was raised That dazzling hand of glory blazed Just as it used to do. The guilty Abbot, tho' amazed. No longer look'd so blue. " Bear witness," cried the grateful King, " That if this day should victory bring. And set us on our legs, Upon this very spot of ground A monastery will I found, As sure as eggs are eggs." XV. And now thy gaze, good reader, turn Where tents are fix'd and watches set : ST. FUJjAK'S AEM AND BKUCE'S ABMY. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 87 Upon the banks of Bannockburn The deadly foes are met. A hundred thousand Saxon men, Fewer the Scots are three to ten — Long odds, I ween and bet ! It boots not I should tell thee how The parties carried on the row ; How archers arch'd and billmen bill'd ; What chiels were wounded, ta'en, and kill'd ; How clouds of cloth-yard arrows sped As fatally as balls of lead ; How Southron fell, and Gael was slain ; How Scottish Lions' might and main Were well display'd in driving back The oft-invading Sassenach ; How gallant Stuart, Moray, Bruce, And Keith let all their valour loose. And James, " the good Sir Douglas " hight. Did more than wonders in the fight. If these particulars you need. Go, fetch your " Works of Scott," and read ' Lord of the Isles," thro' Canto VI. That Scotland's laddies fought like bricks Is also known to him who learns The fiery song of Robert Bums ; And after such as they have sung, A meaner bard should hold his tongue. XVI. O sceptic reader ot my song, To whom should victory's praise belong ? 88 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. What render'd Scotland's arm so strong ? It was no earthly might, It was not luck, it was not pluck, Nor skill with which the blow was struck ; 'Twas Fillan's Arm of light ! And had the Scots the fray began Unaided by that talisman, They must have lost the fight. But there are no such wonders now ; This is an age of little faith, When people would as soon avow Belief in ghost or wraith, As think a Saint, alive or dead, 'Gainst solid force could so avail, That relics brought, or prayer said, Could turn the battle's scale. XVII. Be sure the Bruce did not forget To render to the Saint his debt. He raised upon that sacred spot A priory, and well I wot No finer ruin could be seen 'Twixt John o' Groat's and Aberdeen. At least, I deem such verdict just, Tho' purely taken upon trust ; For long ere this you must have found I never was on Scottish ground. More spots than I have time to name Bear witness to St. Fillan's fame ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 89 There is " St. Fillan's " near Loch Earn, In Fife, " St. Phillan's," so I learn ; There is " KinfiUan " in Renfrew, " StrathfiUan," and within its view, " Dwifillan," where the orthodox Show there are hollows in the rocks, Worn by his knees in constant pray'r. There also is " St. Fillan's Chair." And more than one " St. Fillan's Fount " May enter into this account. Which further would your time engage, By Fillan up another page. Harp of the North, farewell ! I'm getting tired Of this my theme (and so's the reader too). Now faints the fervour in my brain, inspired By sipping Caledonia's " mountain dew.'' Sweet harp ! I'll also give what's due to you, Assister of my mghivagaeltc lay ; Thy wizard wires I tenderly unscrew, And hang thee o'er St. Fillan's fountain grey. Whose story we have told. So, Minstrel harp, good day No. 1 1. -ST. GEORGE OF ENGLAND. LL know St. George is England's Saint, And patron of chivalric fighters, And that he slew a dragon grim, But little more is said of him By any ultra-modern writers. Yet was he of such wide renown, That tho' described of Cappadocia, His fame was early spread of yore To every part of Levant's shore, From Alexandria to Croatia. To Palestine he came in youth, (He owned some land within that region), And then took up the warrior's trade With such success, that he was made Tribune, and leader of a legion. He changed his faith — a parlous act In his political position — For 'gainst, the Christians then there raged Fierce war, by Diocletian waged, So Georgius threw up his commission, Gave all his wealth, assumed the Cross, And as a missionary started ; In this he prospered much and long. Till those in heathendom most strong Like vengeful dragons on him darted. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 91 Small mercy had the men who gave To idol-worship their adhesion. By them the saintly George was brought To Provost Dacyen, one who wrought The harsh decrees of Diocletian. In vain upon the Saint were turn'd The terrors of their Inquisition ; He to his creed adhered as fast As barnacle to ship — at last The Provost called in his Magician, Who mix'd some wine with poison strong To kill, since they could not convert him. George took the bowl, nor did he shrink From tossing off the fatal drink ; But, strange to say, it didn't hurt him. They, made it stronger, still he drank, Nor show'd the slightest signs of dying, Then, seeing miracles so rife, The Wizard and the Provost's wife Turn'd Christians — which was very trying To Dacyen, who had torture-wheels, With scythes to cut their flesh in pieces. They plunged him, too, in molten lead. And yet he was no nearer dead — His life seemed held on sev'ral leases. 92 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Till, finding torture would not do, The Provost fain must try — persuasion ; He deemed that method took effect. So made the populace collect Together for this great occasion. When lo ! recanting not, the Saint Pray'd Christian pray'rs — and what was stranger, Avenging flames from Heaven did fall On temple, idols, guests and all — The Pagans fled in dread and danger. Now Dacyen, fearful of such might, Conceived a final fell intention : — " I see we must decapitate This man " — (thai seem'd the only fate Exempt from heavenly intervention). 'Twas done ; upon the morrow's morn, A martyr's fate the Bishop suffer'd ; His tomb's at Ramis, where, 'tis said, Each pilgrim who was said was " off his head " By touching that his " wyttes " recover'd. St. George was held in great esteem. Made patron of Genoa and Britain ; He reappeared in spectral form And helped Jerusalem to storm, Insuring victory — so 'tis written. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Of England's Order of St. George Chivalrous Edward was the starter, But thro' that doubtful anecdote Which 'tis not needful here to quote, The Order was renamed the Garter. Our champion's image decks that coin Which values twenty times a shilling, Fighting in most heroic state ; And now I must in full relate The story of his dragon-killing. He to Sylene's city came When folks were in a dreadful hobble, A dragon dread, whose very breath Was rife with pestilence and death. Had come the citizens to gdbble. They gave, to " soothe its savage breast," Two sheep a-day, till, none remaining, A sheep and man, then men alone, No soul could call his life his own. And naught was heard but sad complaining. To kill a dragon was a feat No armies ever could succeed in ; Champions alone in Heaven-sent strength And couiage, could prevail at length — This fact all legends are agreed in. 93 94 LAYS OF THE SAIMTLY. And tourists even now are shown — To prove the dragon was no fable — The well that served as his retreat, Whence he emerged those meals to eat Which needed neither cloth nor table. So men and women, girls and boys. Were gulp'd within that dragon's swallow, Until 'twas requisite to bring The only daughter of the king. The common fate in turn to follow. The king wept sore — (he would, you know), And pray'd them spare his child for pity ; '' No, sire, the law for all's the same. And why should'st thou exemption claim ? The maid must die to save the city." Eight days' reprieve — no champion came, Till further hope 'twas vain to cherish ; " Yes, she must die ! " — Oh, sentence sad ! Of course, for lowlier girls 'twas bad, But worse for a princess to perish. They took the royal maid and bound Her to a stake to be devour'd ; And tho' so sore her friends bewail'd, The girl's own courage never fail'd — She was not what you call a coward. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 95 The king gave up his child for lost, And all condoled in his bereavement. 'Twas now St. George arrived by chance. O muse of Spenser's sweet romance, Aid me to sing this great achievement ! ^e ^egenlie «f §t. dexrrge ani g* '^x&^one. " Ye Champioun meeteth ye Princesse All readie dight for deth, Her doth he reskew, and ye dred- FuU Dragon vanquisheth. Deem not, faire dame, quoth then ye gentle knighte, Whose hart was piersfed with her piteous case, That I wolde leeve thee in see great despight, Like recreant knave, or caitive lowe and bace ; Certes, I'le meet this dragbnne face to face. And whan he commeth forthe on thee to lunch, No haire uppon thine hed shal he displace, Or chawe thy beateous bones with greedie scrunche, Ere that, ye monstre's grizly head I'll featlie punche ! Scarce had he said, whan, lo ! with dredfuU rore As Aetna gives, when hadJn its in syde, --■ ' Which shooke the erthe for thirty leagues or more, Ye hell-born beest approaching they espyde. Its winges as windmill's sayles all waggitig wyde. And curling folde on folde its scaylie tayle, When as, uprearing high, askaunce it eyed Ye roiall female and ye knightly male, In size and bulke it eke was veray lyke a whayle. 96 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. His horrid hed, and sparckling armured cote, As some infernall crocodyle's did shyne, His voyce like musicke playing out of note, When instruments discordious doe combine ; His teeth gleraed out in grinning loathlie line. His eyne like brenning lomps of Walsende cole. His mugge so vast and wide, I wel opine, An oliphaunt he might have swallow'd whole. He was, in soothe, ynough to fryghten anie lyving sole. Soon as his blazing orbes on that Frincesse Ye monstre fixt, than 'gan he to attacke, Entent to chaw her into nothingnesse Within his cavern mowthe so foule and blacke , But when, for better spryng, ye feende drew backe, Her doughtie Champion, urged by corage stoute, His swerde uprist, and delt so shrewde a cracke Uppon ye tender portion of his snowte. That from ye wounde a gorie streme rusht redlie out. Thereat ye dragonne rais'd a gruesome yelle. More lowd than twentie gunnes of Armstrong's make, And on St. George in raging furie felle, Forgatt ye hongre hee had com to slake On that Princesse, now loost from perlous stake Wel that ye warriour was so stout of limb, Mounted on barb so brave it ne'er could quake, Enmayled, and ful of corage to ye brimme, Else had that scaylie brute soone spyfHicated him ! They closed again, foreche was loth to yield, Ye feendish beest thrust forth his spightfull clawe, And fix'd his talaunts in ye Champion's shielde, Which rent in twain, that knighte had been yslawe, ST 6EOS6E AM) THE IM--MEMOBIAL" DRASDN. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 97 But eftly skjrpping back, he did withdrawe ; Next, on its tonge, he strook a stardie buffe. Making ye dragonne holde his bleedynge iaw, And as ye Scottische Tyraunt to Macdufie, He might have cryde for mercie, "holde ! ynonghe ! " Eftsoones ye speare empiersed ye diagonne's eie. Ye which so moche did raize his yrefiill gorge. He shooke the aj^re with manie a salvage crie. And with sharpe clutche essay'd to grabbe St. George ; Now gleem'd his eie like fyre from Volcan's foige, His verie breth bothe knyghte and hors knockt downe, But uppe they rist, retouming to ye charge ; Our Paladin then crackt ye monstre's croune, As fiers as Christen trewe attacking fals Mahoune. Five hours by village clocke had George yfoughte, Withouten bytte or suppe his forse to feed. Yet in those tymes of eld such feats were nougl\^ Ye knightes of yore no provender did need. When harte and sowle ingaged in dowtie deede ; Thinke on ye Red Crosse Knighte, in Spenser's lay. Three dales unfed, with woundes to smarte and bleed, He smott a dragonne he had vow'd to slay. Whereas St. George had onlie foughte ye beest a single day. Til, whilst eche byrde its dayly song did hushe. Ye iolly suime went publicklie toe bedde. Whereat ye modest skeys made crimsonne blush. While drowsie n^ht her sable curtin spredd ; And he, our kn^hte, albe his woundes so bled, Yet stil his blowes he gave so sharpe and hard. Ye dragon, faint with losse, was nearlie ded, His scayles all chipt, his bodie pierst and scarred,] And so at last he fel fill lengthe uppon ye swarde.} G 98 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Come forthe, bell-darae, quoth then ye gentle knighte, And fear no more ye dragonne fiers and cruell, By Heaven its grace, and my so valiaunt myghte, Ye monstrous animale hath gotte its gruelle. Give me thy girdell wrought with gold and Jewell, Therwith its necke I wil enchaine and clog. No mo its eyne doe gleme lyke brenning fuelle, Ye beest is queld as meeke as anie dogge, Lead thou it hence, whyle backe we to ye citie jogge. How merveilled all that wondrous sight to vew ! Ye seelie folke gan bolt with all their myghte ; Turn, cried St. George, untoe ye faith that's trewe. And then this feende shal doe ye no despight ; But if ye treat my words with scornful slight. Your bones to polpe ye dragon shall devour : Attonce upon their sowles came holie light. And Christen vertues in their hartes did flower. So thousands were baptysde within that self-same hour. Now did our knighte cut off ye dragon's hed, And had it rais'd aloft that all mought see, Whereas they knew ther enimie was ded. They hugg'd eche other in their hight of glee. And unto him who did ye monstre slee, No mortall threasure semed too great to give ; Which then St. George bestow'd in charitee, On such as in distresse were fain to live, And showts and blessings did he for that boone receive. And when ye kynge reclaim'd his doughter dear, Whome never he had hoped to see again. His hart with ioy was fiU'd and gladsome cheare. He saith to George, " Fair sonne, I pray remaine. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 99 And 'after me ore this wide reaulme rayne, Taking my child in wedlocke's happie tye." " I thancke thee wel," ye champion 'gain explain, " But, cartes, I have other fische to frye. And at to-morrow's daun 'tis meet I say gdod-bye." Ye knighte departed as ye morning came, Ye citie mourning much to see him goe, For by his deed, wel worthe etemall fame. Their grateful! love for reskew did they owe, And eke that they ye Christen faith did knowe ; So fared he forthe, to wage more war with ill, Alas ! such valoure we behold no m6 ! For, tho', perchance, live men of hart and will. They kill no dragonnes, for ther ben non left to kill. Some writers steadfastly maintain This pretty story's but a fiction. That dragon's but a type of sin, And sceptics, when they once begin, Play havoc with each old conviction. Their version makes our doughty Saint But one amongst unwarlike sinners, Whose martial fame did first arise From his contracting for supplies Of meat for Caesar's soldiers' dinners ! He swindled, too, thro' thick and thin, Alike in quahty and measure. And like a wordling base, grew rich By following but one end, the which Was simply his own gain and pleasure. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. His peculations roused at last The vengeance of the men he cheated, They would have slain him, but he fled (Money and all) ere blood was shed ; ' And none knew where he had retreated. When lo ! from danger and disgrace, On fortune's highest tide he floated ; As Christian priest was sanctified, Then took the winning Arian's side, Toadied their chiefs, and got promoted. St. Athanasius — he whose creed Some Protestants still disapprove of— Was B^ypt's Primate of that hour ; But soon St. George's growing power Caused him to be deposed and move off. So Bishop George in Egypt reign'd. With tyrant grasp his sceptre swaying O'er heathen, heretic, and Jew ; His wealth by trade and taxes grew, Whoever lost, kis game was paying. But golden days will never last, Constantius died — our " Saint's " uph_" She is Far From the Land." , He is far from the land where his enemies keep His worth and his virtues decrying, In Britain his age will sink gently to sleep, The monks an asylum supplying ; In Erin he lived, but in Somerset died, At (some say) a hundred-and-twenty. Some less, but one fact all his records decide Of years and of honours he'd plenty. " We'll lay him in state now," his followers said, " And send him to Erin to-morrow, Where the shamrock will droop when it hears he is dead. And the blarney-stone soften with sorrow.'' They gave him a grave in the city of Down, With other great saints they enshrined him ; His wealth was but small, but his deathless renown Was worthy of leaving behind him. Air — Love's Young Dream." Oh ! the days are gone when saints so bright Amongst us throve. And those who dealt in heaven's light A brisk trade drove ; New times have come. When Faith is numb. And all is gas and steam ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 127 Oh ! there's no one half so good in life As our loved theme. And nowadays how strange a life Would Patrick's seem ! Farewell, farewell to thee, Ireland's protector, Thy mem'ry I drink in a draught of " L.L." If ever a " mediimi '' shall show me thy spectre, How gladly I'll bow to his mystical spell ! Farewell, farewell to fair Erin, thy daughter. And may she grow ever more lovely and gay. Forgetting die troubles the past may have brought her. Till each shade of sorrow has vanished away. ^ir — " Dear Harp of my Country.'' Dear Harp of Hibemia ! no longer 111 sound thee. Already I fear I have jingled too long, A wreath of absurdity weaving around thee. Which serious people may censure as wrong. Go, sleep till some rival of Moore or of Lover Shall wake thy sweet strings to a worthier tone ; I hope if I've hurt thee, thou soon wilt recover. And mean, for the fiiture, to leave thee alone. No. 14.— ST. JANUARIUS. |F relics and of holy charms, and such celestial treasures, The, Papal Church has ever had a goodly store to boastj To priestly domination, of all soul-enslaving measures, The traffic in such trinkets has contributed the most. The " one original True Cross," as many Christians thought K Was cut, and chipped, and pared away to nothing, one would think ; A piece was carried off by every devotee that sought it, And yet from primal shape and size it never seemed to shrink. Just so no monster gender'd in the mighty brain of Dante, Had half as many bones and heads as saints, 'twould seem, possessed ; And tho' of their identity the evidence was scanty, In wearing such, believers thought themselves supremely blessed. Yet how could any saint have had two sets of human members ? And how could more than one True Cross as genuine be shown ? Has any single year contained a couple of Decembers ? Of tongues alone 'tis possible a multitude to own. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. I29 Besides, it's hard that Saints deceased, however much respected, Are scatter'd in this fashion and not decently entomb'd, Tho' calendared in memory, they're seldom re-cMected, But to a second martyrdom posthumously are doom'd. Fair Italy in martyrs' blood's particularly wealthy, She keeps a bottle full in every monastery and church. Which melts at prayer until it looks Uke fluid live and healthy, A miracle that well rewards the pious pilgrim's search. Saints Ursula, Bartholomew, St. Vitus, and St. Lawrence, St. Eustace, John the Baptist, and some half a hundred more. Have left their blood in Naples, Rome, and Sicily, and Florence, To liquify when holy men come thither to adore. But 'mid the sacred relics for their virtues highly rated, St. Januarius's blood is famous far and near. In May and in September is 'tix'^festa celebrated. And once again repeated at the closing of the year. Sweet Naples ! " City of the Waves," as Mrs. Hemans named thee, Oh, would I could do justice to thy beauty in my song. And prove thee " Qiieen of Summer Seas," as poets have proclaim'd thee, But that would make the present lay inordinately long. I I30 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. The subject of my melody's exclusively religious, I hope my treatment of it will be reverent to match ; For one who ventures on a theme so sacred and prodigious, Should do his very best a strain devotional to catch. Obliging Muse, come, gift me with an eloquence ecstatic, To praise St. Januarius for all that he has done. (" Gennaro," his familiar name, sounds rather operatic, Suggesting dread " Lucrezia " and her vocalizing son.) Would'st learn the Saint's biography ? — 'tis little that is io/d of him. He preach'd at Benevento in the later Roman times. When Diocletian's persecuting myrmidons got ^old of him, Regarding his religion as the dreadfuTIest of crimes. Of all the Christian prelates the position was precarious, When purple-mantled Anti-Christ the tyrant sceptre sway'd. And thus it came to happen that the bishop Januarius To Pagan wrath and cruelty a sacrifice was made. 'Tis said it was Timotheus who, suffering from blindness, Was by our Saint restored to sight, yet doom'd him to his fate, An instance that, as oft we find, to do a man a kindness. Is purchasing, not gratitute, but injury and hate. The Saint was to the lions cast, to meet the fate of Daniel, With two companions, innocent of aught but holy zeal. When lo ! each great carnivorus fawn'd on him like a spaniel, And lick'd his feet, declining to begin the horrid meal. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 13! The lookers on attributed this miracle to magic, And charged St. J. with sorcery, whose punishment was death, Determined that his exit should in any case be tragic, By amputation of his head they robb'd him of his breath. 'Tis strange, as I've remark'd before, that martyrs brought to slaughter. Whatever other forms of fate they manage to escape, Tho' passing safe thro' boiling oil, and flames, and drowning water. Expire at once when death assumes decapitation's shape. Tradition says, a Roman dame, his loss devoutly ruing. Sponged up the precious drops of blood, and put them in a phial ; A bit of straw by chance fell in the bottle, while so doing. That straitfs still there! — a fact enough to silence all denial. r The Saint's remains have often, since the day he went to heaven. Been moved from grave to grave, until at last they were transferr'd To Naples' grand basilica, in fourteen-ninety-seven, And there with pomp and circumstance most solemnly in- terr'd. The splendid tomb and chapel form a suitable memorial, Domenichino, Spagnoletto, were employed to paint The scenes that deck the walls, and give a history pictorial Of all the deeds and labours of the wonder-working Saint. 132 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. It is behind the altar that the relics are deposited, And guarded safely with a double-duplicate of keys. Till on the days of festival they're carefully uncloseted, The pious Neapolitans to edify and please. The head of " San Gennaro," now as hard and brown as leather, Is placed upon the altar, near the sacrificial blood ; The marvel is that when these holy relics meet together The vital stream will flow anew, tho' dried as thick as mud. But first the guardiansof the shrine, by fervency in praying. Must warm their zeal to melting pitch, to gain the need- ful power, But when the blood will liquify exactly, there's no saying, It mostly takes ten minutes or a quarter of an hour. A bust of Naples' patron, large, and hoUow'd out, and bumish'd, Contains his fossil cranium, as it stands upon the shrine ; With priestly robes magnificent his shoulders then are fiir- nish'd. And when the candles are alight the sight is very fine. The blood is kept in bottles, one is small and reddish yellow. But here and there upon the glass some sanguine specks have dried ; The other phial's larger and more greyish than its fellow. And holds some half-a-pint or so of martyr'd blood inside. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 33 The blood when first reveal'd to view is very dark and cloggy, The case is like a carriage lamp, with hoops of silver barr'd, 1 The surface of the glassy sides is so opaque aild foggy, To see through the deception (if it be one) must be hard. 'Tis sweet to mark the faithful in the grand cathedral gather, To help the saints and clergy for their sins to intercede, But if the blood's long melting, the officiating father Will try the soft persuasion of the Athanasian Creed. That " fixes it," as Yankees say, as we should say, »«-fixes ; The clotted gore is fluidized, and mingles in a stream They lift the Roman candles up — the longest of "long sixes " To cast upon the marvel their illuminating gleam. Then when the process is complete, the keeper or " Thesaurer," Like nursemaid with a baby, hands the precious burden round To be caressed and fondly kiss'd by ekch devout adorer, With joyous tears, as one who has a priceless treasure found. It certainly must be a scene religiously inspiring To see the pious multitude with pleasure so elate. To hear the organ pealing, and the city guns a-firing, (But that was discontinued, it appears, in '68). 134 l-AYS OF I HE SAINTLY. On special days the relics through the city streets are carried, A clerical procession as magnificent and bright As monarch's when he's crown'd, or princely couples' when they're married, A " cynosure '' all " neigh'bring eyes " to fasten and delight. When melts the blood a kerchiefs waved, and birds are set a-flying, The priest upon the altar scatters petals of the rose. And thus with praying, playing, paying (very often crying^. And marching round, the ceremony draws towards a close. No doubt 'tis most imposing, but suggestive, to my fancy, (I hope that such comparison to no one seems a sin) Of those ornate, bewildering displays of necromancy, By conjurors like Hermann, Frikell, Maskelyne, and Lynn- Oh, for the eye of childish faith, whose seeing is believing I That faith which Education's spread is banishing from earth. Preventing lord or commoner sucTi miracles receiving As did in Jacobitish times the pious Earl of Perth. ThRfesta when he witness'd it took place in January, Mid hundreds of the faithfuUest of worshippers he knelt ; He saw the liquefaction in the sacred reliquary. And doubted not the Hand Divine had caused the blood to melt. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 35 'Twas only after many hours of penitential kneeling On cold, hard stones, the devotees beheld, with tears of bliss. The blessed saint's death-frozen stream to fluid uncongeal- ing: The Scottish lord the bottle hugg'd with oft-repeated kiss. Ah me ! this nineteenth century of scepticism and science. More cold and hard than any stones impress'd by pilgrim's knees, Has taught that men, by bringing Nature's laws to due appliance, Objective miracles like this can imitate with ease. iTis hard to have to question such a sacred " Institution," But Truth will stand, however close a scrutiny be made, Applying to the mystery a chemical solution. We find there is no need at all for superhuman aid. Thrice happy he whose calm belief declines the task of struggling With pros and cons, objections, doubts, all difficult to meet. Suspecting holy ministrants of systematic juggling. And joining in a pious fraud the ignorant to cheat. When once such possibilities have won from us admission, We find our doubts increasing while our faith is growing small. Until their culmination in the terrible suspicion That Januarius's " blood " may not be blood at all. 136 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. And after all, cui bono 9 asks the soulless and prosaic, What benefit's the miracle, supposing it is true ? Forbear, my gentle reader, whether clerical or laic. To judge the creed of others from a narrow-minded view. It keeps alive the ancient Faith which Italy, possessing, Is far more favour'd than ourselves, the godless tho' the free, A faith that thro' the centuries has ever proved a blessing (If this you doubt, peruse the Paipal histories, and see). Besides, when dread Vesuvius shows ugly signs of grumbling, The citizens implore their Saint the peril to avert, And then, instead of lava-streams upon their houses tumbling. The fierce volcano stills its wrath, nor does the slightest hurt. For fourteen centuries or more the blood has now existed, For nearly half-a-thousand years its virtues have been proved ; How many Roman converts in that time it has enlisted. How many souls from heresy to Orthodoxy moved ! Then hail to Januarius ! and may his feast tri-annual (Altho' they say it's scarcely so successful as of yore), In spite of Garibaldi and Vittorio Emmanuel', In fame and might miraculous grow yearly more and more. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 137 Teetotallers alone may well avoid it,, since it teaches Devotion to the Bottle, and it wouldn't do a bit For apopletic subjects, for they know that, spite of leeches, When once the Blood gets to the Head, they're sure to have a fit. No. 15.— St. CATHERINE OF SIENNA. " Whal does it all mean. Poet ? " » * ^ ^ " Nor ever was, except i* the brains of men. More noise 1 y word of mouth, than you hear now." « t * » Yonder's a fire ; into it goes my book. As who shall say me nay? and what the loss ?" — Browning. |END me thy lyre, " O Robert, toi quefaime." Just for a little while, and, public, you " Bid me discourse, I will distract thine ear " With discords deep and grating to the teeth As tearing linen, or slate pencil's scrape. Or the harsh shriek of screech-owl on gnarled oak ; Sounds jangled, tangled, like the knotted chords Of Wagner's music-puzzlements ; vouchsafe, O virile Muse ! to aid me to pour forth Rhymes ragged, jagged as the rasping rush Of rough Macadam emptied from a cart. Or roaring cataract o'er rugged rock. Lines like an iron tonic to the mind Too smoothed by modern, milky, silky verse. Make me abhor lucidity, and hide My thoughts within a pyramid of words, A verbal dust-heap, fleck'd with rags and bones. Though priceless gems and gold will lurk beneath So let my patient vot'ries grope and pore, Read me ten times, and more, until at last They think — poor fools ! — they've found my meaning out. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 39 Where did I read St. Catherine's history ? At book-stall in the street of Holy- Well ? In dusty, fusty, musty bookworms' haunt ? In Record OflSce business-like and grim ? Not so, 'twas in a seaward cosy nook, I' the vast library of the second floor Of Count Montinfluenza's Palace damp, At Venice, city of a hundred isles, And twice a hundred kinds of colds and coughs. Affections bronchial, and ague-fits ; For there is " water, water everywhere," Rising at a terrific (water-)rate : That's where I found the book, all typograph'd In middle-age Italian ; I read and read Until my heart, blood, body, brain, and soul, Were full o' the subject, I must write or burst ; I choose to write, and this is the result. II. Hast ever seen Sienna .' No ? Then take a bard's advice, and go \Arhen next at Italy you peep Thro' Cook's Excursions (always cheap) To see Art's treasures, heap on heap. The City stands upon a jagged. Scragged, up-dragged, ragged, craggdd Cluster of rocks, where, long ago, A fierce volcano boiled below ; I40 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Each now and then it mumbled, grumbled, Rumbled, blew up, and houses tumbled, Men stumbled, or in darkness fumbled, Piazzas, streets, to fragments crumbled. And in a vast ddbris lay jumbled ; Thus standing on a former crater. No streets could ever be unstraighter Than those ; they are mere stairway cuttings r the steep rocks, whose missive juttings. And green lapidical abuttings, Are dented with these trenchant guttings. III. On the tip-top of the rocky perch Stands Sienna's Cathedral Church, Italo-Gothic, marble, painted, Adorn'd with frescoes richly teinted. Carving, mosaic, and inlaid work (Most beautiful and highly-^azV/ work). Walls, floor, and roof, in every part, Are smother'd with results of art, The' eye may see, and soul irabibe them, Ruskin alone could well describe them. Forget not, too, in that Ca/A^dral, Some half-a-dozen of the bead-roW Of Popish pontiffs, buried lying, 'Neath sculptures vast and edifying. IV. But Catherine .' — well, we'll come to Aer. Up on the other peak or spur LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. I4I O' the mountain, bleak, and bare, and dreary, Rises St. Dominick's monastery, A plain, brick building, heavy, ugly, 'Twixt the two points the city snugly Lies in the gap ; i' the midst doth stand a Far-famous fountain — Fontebranda, By Dante raised to Fame's high pinnacle. A man of tastes and senses finical Would hold his nose in going down The street most noted in the town. Full of the homes of dyers, skinners, / Folks of small wealth and scanty dinners. Such poverty-polluted sinners As one may see in Seven Dials Or in the daily Bow-street trials. The tourist shuns each offal sight That wounds his feelings, left and right. Yet, as the butterfly from worm, In foulness glory finds its germ, And 'twas from such a wretched place, That blessed Catherine rose to grace ; There is her house still shown, or rather Old Benincasa's house (her father). But we'll not linger there,her life We have to trace ; the pruning knife 111 try to wield for once, though never In using it have I been clever ; I leave to critics' great audacity The task of stemming my loquacity. 142 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. V. Well, but her life ? when born ? how nurst ? Her starting was the very worst For one who saintship sought of Heaven, (Birth-year, one-three-and-nought-and-seven) The youngest she of twenty-five Children who did in course arrive To Lapa her mamma (her sire By occupation was a dyer). And Catherine's kin were common folk Held in this low world's grosser yoke. Of course they fall'd to compre^^« ^--N ". ___-^ 1 . S '' ' :'-■ J^:' '): -— ^- ^ . ' ~ " """^ — _-^ w i^v^j^^ ■ "^^ B^^& ^ -——<*- -v^j^^ "■ < - '^^ -^ ^=^^^Tmf&^'i A ^ ' 'q^ '- - f 'l^^^k.^^E'^BiiS^ ""' "" ffl \jw ^«S^^^^"™K "^^ n "S? I" i^^ IMk"'' «j^^^Pv pS'^^^^rak-^ j^iji^^^^^^"^^ i^wl^^^^^r^lll ^^^j^m^K, ^^^^^^i^m'^^ p^ffls^^^ I ^p^ JwSk ^^^ Hhm^^^ ^^M Ww^M ^^^^Mi Hl^H 'I^B^M ^^^^v^ 1 '^^^^SS^WwKiKnVis^^ i| ^^■i^HS '^B^m Mt^^^^m^^^^^^ ^^^^M BBfe»?^^/!K'g fwHIl ^^[^ffl^^^^^ "^^^^- ^— "-^ ^^^^^ rJfe^,^^psi^^L^ . *^- ^J^^^,^-. ' -V— I — ^^ --■ ' _, ST, CATHEEINE'S JOUENEY. "GOODS CAEEFULLy EEMOVED." LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. . 151 With psycho-theologic verse, Such as MY mind loves to immerse Itself in — diving out of sight : You don't "feel like it ? " — p'r'aps you're right. XVI. Sackcloth and ashes, cowl and cope, Catherine went to fetch the Pope ; The faithful upon that mission sent her, To bid his holiness Rome re-enter ; The city, for lack of absent Gregory, Was in a state of spiritual beggary. Luggage of ladies, when they're travelling Causes their cavaliers much cavilling, Our Saint's effects were heavy and numb'rous, And 'midst her impedimenta cumbrous A portable altar she used to carry ; Monk, priest, confessor, and secretary Were in her train ; she'd a special "bull" To give sinners absolution full. The Pontiff, deaf on all other occasions. Quickly gave in to the Saint's persuasions : He left Avignon and went to Rome again, Hola .' What pleasure to him safe home again ! XVII. One day in a riot at Florence her piet- ■ -y made the insurgents subside and be quiet ; And did to its duty and reason the city^ call ; Each rioter staightway slunk back thro' the gateway, Which shows the extent of her powers political 1 52 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Of Catherine's works some are left, but 'twere irksome To give you long " quotes ; " each biographer sAirks 'em, Some twenty-six prayers, and of letters four hundred, Are there, and their style is a thing to be wonder'd At, when we reflect that in reading and writing She never took lessons, much more in inditing. But heaven vouchsafed her direct inspiration, Which surely's the grandest of all education. If more you would learn of her story, go io a Book written by " Raymond the Blest,'' of Cap«a, A pious and diligent hagiographer, Confessor to Catherine, and her biographer ; Or if to her shrine you proceed on a visit. Bow down to each relic, and rev'rently quiz it — That scarcely is asking too much of you, is it ? XVIII. In thirteen-hundred-and-eighty, The saint we may nickname " Katey," Expired in Sanctity's odour, And, whether by path, or broad road, or Bye-way, or high door, or low door Any door, some door, or no door, That Heav'n she enter'd, to sii there By virtue so perfectly,;?^, there Can be not a spark of dubiety To you, who have read of her piety. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 53 Reader, farewell, if you have found, or find A difficulty in getting out the pearls From these, my rugged oyster-shells of rhyme. Lament or curse your own stupidity, Or want o' soul ; or slavish bowing-down To the old laws of prosody and sense Bards once obey'd ; dear Robert, thanks on thanks, If I have hardly used thy muse aright. If in recondite hintings I have fail'd, Fall'n short in crabbM verbal cragginess, In ponderous elephantine march of phrase. And paradoxical verbosity, — If I have been too lucid — ^too inclined To show, not hide, my thoughts — if I have miss'd That sweet entanglement, delicious haze, And fascinating fogginess, which lend Thy works such charm, forgive me, I have tned. Who does his best, great bard, can do no more. No. i6.— THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRANDON. HE land of Saints hath Erin been From earliest early time. Already Patrick's life you've seen By me distill'd to rhyme ; And now I sing St. Brandon's fame. And soon you must concur His travels make Munchausen tame, And shame old Gulliver. Till he was old he did not roam, However much inclined, Unless, while bodily at home. He wander'd in his mind. No paternoster-grinding friar, Cell-prison'd all his days, But Paradise, his chief desire. He reach'd by other ways. From good Barintus he had heard Of blessed isles afar, Tho' modem maps say not a word Of where or which they are. The glories of that southern sphere. So charm'd the good St. B., No more he'd stop at home to hear, He'd rather go to see. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. ISJ To sea he went, tho' whence, or what The tonnage of his bark. His history explaineth not, But leaves us in the dark. The Saint and twelve bold sailor-monks In serge — ^good wear for tars — Exchanged their cells for fo'c's'le bunks, Their beads for ropes and spars. But first they made a fast, no less Than forty days in length, (The strangest way, I must confess. Of getting up their strength). Yet fully was the vessel stored With food, and eke with drink ; How long they'd have to live on board. Not one could even think. 'Twas thirteen hundred years ago, The compass was unknown. To compass such a voyage, so Its boldness all must own. Now, eastward ho ! their white sails fill. The breeze is fresh and fair, And tho' " All's well," yet some are ill Awhile with mal de tner. 156 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. For forty days they sail'd, till land Arose from out the main, They thought it very lovely, and They saw it very plain. But tho' they tack'd, and turn'd, and back'd. And cruised thisisle about, Nocreek, or bay, or other way Therein could they make out. A harbour at last ! to shore they pass'd, When down to the beach there came, A dog of a breed I can't indeed Quite specify by name. He fawn'd at the feet of the good St. B., And bow'd and wow-wow'd with joy, As much as to say, " L must let you see How welcome you are, old boy ! " To a hall well spread with drinks and meats That canine led the way, And beds were there with heavenly sheets, And never a groat to pay. And on the morrow, some shade of sorrow They felt that place to leave, While the " jolly dog " refused all prog, To whine, and to moan, and grieve. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. I $7 They sail'd and sail'd for a long, long time, All over the golden ocean, But where they were, in what lines or clime. They hadn't the slightest notion. At last they came to a bright green isle All dotted with snow-white fleece, " The " Island of Sheep," — they stay'd awhile In pastoral bliss and peace. Each sheep was large as a full grown ox ! " To you it must be clear," Said the hoary swain, who fed those .flocks, " We've some fine wether here ! " Ah me ! in these days of dear, dear meat, And frequent want and dearth. When flesh to some is the rarest treat. What would'nt that isle be worth ? " Oh, life is bliss in a place like this ! " Cried Brandon, " but tho' so nice. We're off" this week, for we have to seek The island of Paradise. " 'Tis there, and not on this Isle of Sheep (Whatever our predilection) Our Easter we'll pass, and so we'll keep In an easterly direction." 158 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. Anon our monks beheld an isle, that look'd Flat, dark, and barren as a reedy brake, The brethren landed, and their dinner cook'd, When lo ! the ground beneath them 'gan to quake. Frighten'd they fled : " You've made a grand mistake," Exclaim'd our Saint, " from hence in haste we'U sail. This is ^fish that for an isle you take. That ever seeks in vain to put his tail Into his monstrous mouth — 'tis very like a whale." Three days they sail'd again and found no land, Their hearts sank down in heavy doleful dumps, The anger of the waves they had to stand. The rough, rude ocean gave them bumps and thumps. And shipping seas compell'd them work the pumps ; At last they spied an island sweet and fair. Where trees with spreading branches grew in clumps, Therefrom the notes of birdies fiU'd the air — So thick they swarm'd, the leaves were hidden where they were. As on his knees St. Brandon, weeping, dropp'd, The leading songster from his perch down hopp'd. His pinions whistling " like a merry fyddle,'' And thus explain'd what must have seem'd a riddle — " These birds were angels once, but Satan fell. Dragging his seraph subjects down pell-mell. To lowest depths, but some, whose guilt was less, Stopped here half-way, to live in peacefulness, Tum'd into birds, yet sing like angels still." ST. BBANDON'S WHALING EXPEDITION. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 59 Having explain'd, back hopp'd the bird to trill, And with his mates the air with music fill ; Singing as if it were " no song, no supper," And thus they warbled, in the style of Tupper, Whose ode to our Princess is thought a fine Sample of metre AlexandraAvLt — A poet arithmetical in fame. Who " lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came." The Joy Birds' Ode. I. 100,000 welcomes ! * 100,000 welcomes ! ! And 100,000 more ! ! ! Oh ! happy birds of Eden, Sing like the Star of Sweden, Yes, yes, like Nilsson sing, birds, And make the island ring, birds. As no land rang before ; And let the welkin roar. To wel/l/« him to shore ; Let miles of echo shout it, And sparkling fomitains spout it, \ Let leagues of lightning flash it, And tons of thunder crash it ; Let pouring rainfalls hail his name, And fiery earthquakes sound his fame. Till sky, and sea, and shore Join in a vast encore, 100,000 welcomes. And 100,000 more ! * To enable the reader to realise more vividly the impres^ve solemnity of this ode, the number of welcomes has been put in Arabic numerals. l6o LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. II. Oh ! happy, happy day ! Cheap, chip ! hip-hip — ^hooray ! Oh ! highly-favour'd land, on Whose shore has come St. Brandon, He comes, the Saint of Erin, A pearl ? — Oh, yes ! — of price. With twelve good monks of Erin, To be as blessful her An As birds of Paradise. He comes, the old and saintly man. To do us all the good he can ; Let crickets chirp his praises. And fireflies dance like blazes, Let leaves in gladness flutter, And winds his virtues mutter, Let Will-o'-the-Wisp his goodness lisp, And frogs glad croakings utter ; Let sunbeams laugh and billows roar. And roll in gladness o'er and o'er. Oh, let us all be glad, birds, And pipe away like mad birds, His saintship to adore ; And still this song outpour — 100,000,000 welcomes ! And 1,000,000,000 more ! St. B. and monks to bed retired, A night-long sleep to take, The matin-song the sweet binds choir'd At morning bade them wake. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. jgl For — ^pious dickies ! — every time Of prayer right well they knew, At complins, vespers, matins, prime. They sang the service through ! When Trinity's great feast was past. Again the ship must ride The billows of the ocean vast. Right on to ChristmaiS-itiie. With tempests foul the wand'rers fought, And often pump'd and baled, Until the land they long had sought, Those holy brothers hail'd. " The Isle of Monks, oh ! blessed spot ! " St. Brandon cried, delighted, " They'll welcome us, although we've not Been previously invited." An old, old man (a monk, of course) Them to the abbey guided, Whose brethren muster'd strong in force, And seem'd full well provided. It surely was a wond'rous thing — A thing I can't explain — What business those monks could bring, Out on that Southern main. L l62 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. But so it was ; — " We all have come From Ireland," quoth the prior, " And on this isle we've found the sum Of all we could desire. " For eighty years, this Christmas-tide, In gladness here we've dwelt. And strange to say not one has died. Nor any illness felt ! " We sow no corn, we feed no droves, 'Tis heaven provides our store. Sending each day a dozen loaves, On Sundays, twenty-four. " And, since to guests it is not meei To give an empty plate. On this occasion, for a treat. The loaves are forty-eight. " So, Brother Brandon, sit you down, No Christian can refuse Bread made in heaven — both white and brown Is there for you to choose." Once Brandon there, as he knelt at prayer. Beheld a form divine, The angel who came — with a hand of flame. To light the chapel shrine. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 163 Twelve days, then off again, and thus From isle to isle our party Sped on through perils numerous. And welcomes ever hearty. Half the adventures that they met Were far too long to tell. But some few specimens may yet Be pick'd from what befel. With reefing and steering, and praying, With tacking, mass-chanting, belaying. Their time was most gaily expended ; Till a monster of aspect unpleasing, 'Gan follow them, snorting and wheezing, And clearly some mischief intended. You've heard about sharks in the tropics, And pork-baited hooks — for such topics. See Marryat, Cringle and others, — Well, this, a still uglier " critter," Took aim at the vessel and hit her. In a way that astonish'd the brothers. For into the hatches he spouted Such torrents, the poor fellows doubted They'd five minutes longer to float ; The vessel was rapidly sinking, And small were their chances, I'm thinking. With never a life-buoy or boat l64 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. These creatures (their structures a puzzle,) Have a blow-hole a-top of their muzzle (The savans have termed it a " spiracle ") ; With this they their victims can worry, But saints can't be kill'd in a hurry, There's always the chance of a miracle. And so it turn'd out in the sequel, The help to the ijeed was quite equal. This monster, so bent upon slaughter. Was quickly " chaw'd " up by a bigger, Of far more Leviathan figure. Who foUow'd him under the water ; A peril now came, even harder, Our monks look'd dismay'd at their larder. There scarce was sufficient to dine ; They gave the poor steward a wigging. When sudden they saw on the rigging, A bird with a branch of the vine. Crowding sail on the ship, they soon brought her To an island that made their mouths water ; For grapes grew as thick as wild berries ; And there in safe harbour they glided, For clearly the place was provided With natural ports — perhaps sherries. The future our monks better heeding, They victuall'd for forty days' feeding ; LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 165 Once more a new isle was in sight, But it's folk made such gestures uncivil, St. Brandon exclaim'd " Och ! the divil 1" And found with dismay he was right. Eftsoons a fearsome sight was seen. That smote their heart with fear, A sight that would have scared, I ween. The " Ancient Marinere." A place, the name whereof I'll make To " ears polite " no mention, Our doughty saint (he well might quake) Had reach'd without intention. There grisly fiends, that gnash'd and hiss'd, And roaring sought the shore, Hurl'd stones and darts, their aims were miss'd. Or, sooth ! not saint nor crew, I wist Had ever departed more. With yell and screech, each from the beach The holy men assail'd, And nigh the ugsome Prince of 111 Had good St. Brandon "nail'd," But the heaven-sent breeze blew north'ard still. And still the vessel sail'd. Escaped from these, they straight held mass. The monks their chorals hymning. When shoals of herring, whiting, bass. Around the ship came swimming. l66 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. When mass was done, the pious fish 'Gan peacefully disperse, Anon there blew a breeze that grew Each moment worse and worse ; St. Brandon steer'd, his men afear'd, Could nought but sink on knees ; Some storm-fiend seem'd to haunt their ship, And laugh as he held her in his grip — "111 do as I jolly please!" Still on and on, anon, anon, Till the tossing bark grew stiller, The tempest sank ; with many a thank St. Brandon left the tiller. And o'er the main, now smooth again. The goodly vessel fleeted. And came to a rock, whereon, in pain, A wretched wight was seated. 'Twas Judas of Iscariot, Sent up from the Blazing Pit, And bound by a doom, in the storm and gloom, For days on the rock to sit. His clothes were torn, and the waves had worn Off his " adipose deposit ; " His ribs were bare as the fleshless sides Of the grisly skeleton that hides (See proverb) in every closet. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 167 " Alone, alooe, all, all alone ! " Yet scarcely alone was he. For a million, million fiends came there And they wouldn't let him be. Good-sooth ! it was a gruesome sight To see 'em work him woe ; Our saint compell'd with his holy might The demon crowd to go, But they came again, in the saint's despite, And dragged their prey below. St. Brandon tum'd with teary e'e, And left that place forlorn, A sadder end a wiser saint He sail'd away that mom. For seven long years St. Brandon roved. Ere he and his crew came home, In Erin he lived, admired, beloved, The rest of his days, till at ninety-four He died, but he'll live on evermore. In the saintly roll of Rome. And this is the tale of St Brandon, Its truth I don't venture to stand on And boldly defy contradiction ; But if, upon trying, you find you Can't swallow it, let me remind you That Truth may be stranger than Fiction. No. 17.— ST. GREGORY THE GREAT. yU^fMl WHO have sung, in verse not too sublime, 08 EEh "^^^ saintly ones of old and modem time, Byg»^g| A subject which, unlike the poet's strength And reader's patience, lasts to any length. Take up once more my theme, my pen, my lyre, Invoke the Muses for poetic fire. Divine afflatus, and such other aids As bards can borrow from the land of shades ; An extra inspiration now I need, A prancing Pegasus of purest breed, For he whose life now comes within my scope. Was not Saint only, he was also Pope. ^10 (Earls ^xit. The story I'll relate Of Gregory the Great, Who every saintly quality possessed ; And very soon, I ween, You'll own he must have been The best of the most blessfed of the blest. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 169 In Rome he drew his birth From a family of worth. And Gordian of his father was the name ; Who to a noble bride By a Gordian knot was tied, And Sylvia, it is stated, was the dame. Both rich in Mammon's store. But in piety much more. In latter years these good patricians shrunk From sinful worldly life, And from senator and wife They changed into a humble nun and monk. Tis always thought a boon To be bom with silver spoon In mouth — and rather better if it's gold— To Gregory this gift Insured promotion swift — Chief magistrate at thirty-four years old. He lived in pomp and state Befitting one so great. In silk and gold and precious stones attired ; But then his soul was set On higher treasures yet. To saintly reputation he aspired. I70 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. lis "BdiQtons " CaU." No ! Gregory cared not for loaves or for fishes. Nor pleasures and honours that money could buy ; The good of mankind was the aim of his wishes, And heaven the goal that attracted his eye. And so, when of parents the Reaper bereft him, His personal cost was so strictly in bounds That, from the magnificent fortune they left him, He lived on the pence and gave others the pounds. He carried this Ruskin-like self-abnegation So far, all his titles and posts to resign. To mortify pride and forego ostentation. Were serge 'stead of silk, and drink water for wine. Six abbeys in lovely Sicilia he founded, A seventh — ^inscribed to St. Andrew — at Rome, And soon, by his priests and disciples surrounded. As Abbot, Gregorius felt quite at home. le JttBgterge at ge ^ngel-Jttarintw. Now wonders began, And heaven with manifestations impressed This sanctified man. Thus once he was keeping His vigil when, weeping, And greatly distress'd, A sailor-like form. Cast up by the storm, LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 171 Came thither to beg, and long woes to recount ; Much moved by his manner The saint gave a " tanner,'' (We look at the motive, and not the amount) And sent him away. But soon he came back, for his money was lost — In grief and dismay ; — " Here's sixpence, my brother. Which makes, with the other, A shilling you've cost." Thai coin went as well, And back to the cell The sailor came — like a bad shilling himself. (What faith in his honour The reverend donor Evinced, and how lavish of pity and pelf !) " I've no money left," The Abbot now said, " but this fine silver dish From begging and theft Will serve to secure you. When pawn'd 'twill insure you Whatever you wish." The seaman once more Sought Gregory's door, But changed to an angel's bright glorious state, " Hail, saint ! whose good action Gives such satis&ction, I bring Heaven's blessing ; and here is your plate." 172 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. ^e §aittt'0 Jfaeting ml '^nmilit^. ' 'Twas said the good Gregorius was very fond of fasting, But prone to faint with weakness if his abstinence were lasting ; For howsoever strong the will, and firm the resolution. To realise their promptings oft depends on constitution. He thought it very hard, indeed, that on the Eve of Easter, When all the world were fasters, he alone should be a feaster ; But prayer and perseverance Nature's feebleness defeating, In time he learnt to overcome that sinful knack of eating. Beneath no bushel was concealed our hero's moral beacon, For Gregory was nuncio, and cardinal and deacon, Confounder of all heretics, and Papal secretary. And sent to distant Angleland to act as missionary ; But soon recalled — the Romans found they couldn't bear to lose him. Yet thanks for what he did for us no Briton can refuse him ; So great a "pillar of the Church," still high and higher rising Would reach the Roman Capital at last, beyond surmising ; No card-in-all the Papal pack whose winning chance was brighter, No lowly head more certain of the ^zVrarchic mitre ; Yea, once an angel told him so (the same he had befriended) Who Gregory's " little dinners " in disguise had oft attended. But 'gainst such high ambitious thoughts the humble saint protested. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 173 Declaring that his pious zeal was quite disinterested ; "And if they offer'd him the crown" (and here the good man wept) " it Would pass the power of all mankind to force him to accept it-" He little thought this attitude was just the course that won them : Men always thrust their honours most on those who seek to shun them. But never were the Romans blind To merits of the saintly kind, They saw our hero was design'd For clerical regality. So, when the good Pelagius went Where popes all go when life is spent. All meant to Gregory to present The honours of papality. Now human nature, history proves, In priestly bosoms lives and moves As in more wordly forms and grooves, 'Tis changed but in condition ; The Church hath ever loved intrigue, Each conclave is a clique or league. Whose members work, without fatigue, The workings of ambition. 174 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. But Gregory, humble, selfless, pure, Wish'd only to remain obscure. And make his path to heaven secure. He shunn'd both power and splendour, And so in secret did depart From Rome, conceal'd within a cart, Resolving in his inmost heart, He never would surrender. Three days in caverns, and amid The fastnesses of woods he hid, He knew the^d seek him — and they did, Most eager were their searches ; They sought him north, south, west, and east. By day and night they never ceased. In Rome excitement still increased. And tumult fiU'd the churches. Anxiety had reached its pitch. They'd hunted every nook and niche, At last they found him in a ditch (I hope it was a dry one) ; A sharp-eyed monk dispell'd despair By sudden shouting, " I declare The holy man's snugged up in there — By Jingo ! he's a sly one ! " But what secured his being found Was that, as o'er some hallow'd ground, A shaft of light shone all around. Whose beams the ditch did_fiash on ; I-AYS OF THE SAINTLY. 175 And on the good saint's humble gown And face, as 'twere some halo' A crown, While angels flitted up and down, In Jacob's-ladder fashion. 'Twas clear from this that Heaven decreed Gregorius to be Pope indeed ; They fetched him forth with joy and speed, And hastened to proclaim him ; So he was crown'd in pomp and state, The Roman people, much elate, Hail'd him as " Gregory the Great," Which history still doth name him. gliggfttU §i-&it of se ^ols Jfatlwr. Oh ! what a glorious feeling it must be To sit enthroned in Peter's sacred chair-^ To wear the tri-crown'd beehive, and to see Tokens of your dominion everywhere ! To hold the keys of New Jerusalem, And ope its radiant gates to the elect ; Able to give salvation, or condemn, To breathe the incense sweet of man's resipect. To be a king, yet know no kingly cares, As royal quarrels, marriages, and dowers ; Cousins who plot, or ioo expectant heirs, No queen to share (and p'rhaps usurp) your powers. 176 LAYS OF THE SAINTL . To know you are infallible, and speak Words prized as gems of wisdom far and wide ! No wonder human nature, being weak — (If popes are human) — should be pufPd with pride. But he, our saint, whom nothing could make proud, Bore his thick honours, blushing all the whUe, Adopting, — tho' so worshipp'd by the crowd, " Servus servorum Dei " as his style. Some say 'twas nothing but " the pride which apes Humility ; " his virtues were a sham, Pshaw ! — slander is a thing that none escapes, Whom many bless, a few are sure to damn. Jttarb«Urrtt0 %t\xt& of gc §aittt. Of relics our saint had a number. And taught the elect how to prize What sceptics consider as lumber. And heretics laugh at as lies ; Miraculous legend and story He told, and much miracle wrought, To Rome — be it said to his glory — The arm of St. Andrew he brought. When sinners indulged in revilings The head of St. Luke awed them all ; He'd also some precious steel filings Rasped off from the chains of St. Paul. He sent to devout Constantina A veil the apostles had touch'd ; Worth more than the oldest of china, By fancier eagerly clutch'd. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. 1 77 He'd oils from the tombs of the martyrs, That caused every ailment to fly, And suppliants came from all quarters To ask, and he'd never deny ; Such seekers his palace oft crowded ; When certain ambassadors came, He gave them a cloth which had shrouded Some saints of exceptional fame. The present afforded much pleasure. And homeward its casket they bore. But found, when they peep'd at their treasure, A plain piece of linen — no more. " His Holiness, sure, is deceiving," They cried, and to Gregory sped. Who then, to ensure their believing, Cut through the blest sheet — and it bledj Oh, doubt not such facts ; once St. Gregory, blessing A chapel polluted by Arianism, Brought thither the relics he jo/d in possessing To aid in destroying that horrible schism ; When out of the chapel a great hog ran grunting (Though how he got in there, I'm sure I can't say) ; Of course 'twas the Devil disguised, who confronting Those sanctified symbols, was driven away. ■ The lamps of that temple by angels were ///, too. Or lighted, at least, when no mortal was near. With flame so celestial in brightness, 'twas yS/ to Illume not an earthly, but heavenly sphere. M 178 LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. At times a bright cloud would descend on the altar. The fane would be fill'd with an odour divine ; The faithful that crowded the portals would falter, Prevented by awe from approaching the shrine. Sinners were many, in spite of saints, Scorning the Church's high restraints ; Doubting even the solemn fact That Transubstantiation's act Could change the nature of bread and wine ; One woman, during that rite divine, Presumed to laugh when Gregory said, " This is flesh, though it looks like bread." " What ! laughing at such a time and place ! " " Pm the baker's wife, an' it please your Grace, / made that bread, which is sweet and fresh. But fain must laugh when you call it flesh." Need I say that the Pope was bound Such profanity to confound ? Putting forth his marvellous power, No longer the bread seem'd made of flour ; 'Twas palpable flesh, as all might see. And raised their faith to the highest degree. Hey ! presto ! again the charm he wrought, And flesh became bread, as quick as thought. All saw and believed, and the woman's doubt Was changed to penitence most devout. THBBATENED OVERTHBOW OF THE POPE. LAYS or* THE SAINTLY. 1 79 ^is Ckaritse, JBerriE, ani i;iittitt4Jlt ott ge gebgl. In charity our Saint excell'd, Gave distant convents constant aid, Did many to the Faith persuade, But none by violence compell'd ; To every sect was tolerance shown, And even the Jews he let alone. Yet could he be severe at times :— A man the Church's wrath incurr'd. So Gregory spoke the fatal word Which barr'd his way to heavenly climes ; The sinner, invoking magic force, Made Satan enter the PontifPs horse. As Gregory thro' the streets did ride His steed 'gan so insanely act. So plunged and caper'd, buck'd and back'd, " The Devil's in him ! " Gregory cried ; The common folk, as he pranced along. Cried, "Here's another good horse gone wrong ! " The Pontiff made the sacred sign, And pray'd a prayer ; the steed became At once as gentle and as tame As any cat of yours or mine, Else surely, terrible to repeat. The throned Pope would have /osi Ms seat. l8o LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. S^de, Wiotke, mi '§dhe oi §t. ©regorge. 'Twould take a most portentous tome To tell one half the actions Done by the saint who ruled in Rome, His laws, his benefactions. His doctrines, and his miracles — All more or less veracious ; Tho' some of those tradition tells Need faith both deep and spacious. The church with ritual he surcharged (Already more than ample). And her formalities enlarged By precept and example. St. Gregory's writings, well 'tis known. Exist in great variety, And tho' you may dislike their tone, You can't dispute their piety. To prompt the work, the Sacred Dove, Upon his shoulder seated, Would whisper faith, and hope, and love. Which he with pen repeated. There was no doubt about the bird. For Deacon Peter saw it ; And died a martyr to his word, So Fancy did not draw it. Translated to the See of Heaven, His right preferment gaining. Our Saint was freed from earthly leaven. The fourteenth year of reigning. LAYS OF THE SAINTLY. l8r 1J£ ©stablgscketk g* (S«goriau ®haunte. A musical glory to Gregory, too, All histories tally in granting ; To him did the Church owe the striking and new " Gregorian " method of chanting. Two schools he established the capital near, Where good little souls he'd the cure of, And any young lad with a musical ear A sound education was sure of. The books and the instruments Gregory used — Including his rods for correction — Are visible still ; nor are tourists refused The honour and bliss of inspection. ie Jloral $£0»on. And now for the quotient that winds up our sum. It needeth no sage to explain it — It is that, tho' often promotion may come To those who deserve to attain it. By merit success cannot always be scored, Bad luck our deservings may smother ; So strive to make virtue itself ite reward, For fear it may meet with no other. S. Co-umn &^ Co., Strathmore Printing Works, Perth.