| |
| JUST ere the stroke of midnight fell, | |
| The ancient priest of Ploërmel | |
| Sat by his fire one Christmas night. | |
| Still as the grave the frosty air,— | |
| His lips were murmuring a prayer, | 5 |
| The while his heart was softly moved | |
| With thoughts of many a youth he loved | |
| In college days, at peaceful Vannes, | |
| Beside the Sea of Morbihan. | |
| Now some were old and far away, | 10 |
| And some had spent their little day | |
| In wondrous Paris on the Seine; | |
| And some amidst the stormy main | |
| Which sweeps round Brittany were lost; | |
| Thinking of such, his brow he crossed, | 15 |
| And bowed the head whose locks were white. | |
| Sudden, amidst the hush profound, | |
| The far faint echo of a sound, | |
| Stole to his ear; ’t was such as springs | |
| From the slow beat of countless wings, | 20 |
| Or rustle of a multitude | |
| That softly pace a moss-grown wood. | |
| Noiseless he crossed his earthen floor, | |
| And looked into the silvery light | |
| Along the road which passed his door, | 25 |
| And saw—a strange and awful sight! | |
| Far as his aged eyes could reach, | |
| With sound of neither tread nor speech, | |
| Stretched the long files of gray and white. | |
| All silent in the moonshine went | 30 |
| Each cloaked and hooded penitent, | |
| Bearing a torch which burnt upright. | |
| The trembling Curé made the Sign, | |
| Each phantom bent in grave incline, | |
| As when that wind of summer sweet | 35 |
| Bows all the rippling rants of wheat! | |
| The foremost, as he passed the door, | |
| Motioned the Curé on before, | |
| Who mute obeyed; some ghostly spell | |
| Moved the good priest of Ploërmel. | 40 |
| And so the mighty multitude, | |
| Across the moor and through the wood, | |
| Followed, yet guided him, until | |
| His feet by that same spell stood still | |
| Before the open porch, which yet | 45 |
| In a long roofless wall was set. | |
| The ruined church was one which long | |
| Had only heard the night bird’s song, | |
| But still the altar-steps were there, | |
| And a wild rose in festoons fair | 50 |
| Graced it in summer; now the fern | |
| And ivy draped it in their turn. | |
| Then all that mighty multitude | |
| Within the vast enclosure stood, | |
| The moonlight on their garments shone, | 55 |
| And still their torches burned; whilst one | |
| Mounted the mossy steps, and took | |
| Stained vestments and an ancient book, | |
| And old chased chalice from the stone. | |
| With silent awe the saintly priest | 60 |
| Robed for the wonted Christmas feast; | |
| And every shrouded penitent, | |
| On humble knees devoutly bent. | |
| One served the Mass, and all intent | |
| Responded with the mystic tone | 65 |
| Of winds and waves together blent. | |
| But when he raised the sacred Host | |
| The vague, uncertain tone was lost | |
| In sweetest music of the upper spheres; | |
| And when the Curé raised his hand and blest | 70 |
| The kneeling flock, with Ite, missa est, | |
| The shrouded penitents were seen to softly rise | |
| Like a white shining cloud to his astonished eyes; | |
| And ere the last sweet gospel words were done, | |
| The nave was empty,—the good priest alone | 75 |
| Invoked the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; | |
| While from the distant skies a heavenly host | |
| Of souls, set free from purgatorial pain, | |
| Sang, as they took their flight, the sweet refrain, | |
| “Hath been, is now, and evermore shall be, | 80 |
| World without end! Amen!” | |
| |
