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Translated by C. T. Brooks
MID thy rock-bound shores, Galicia, | |
| Lies a consecrated place, | |
| Where the blessed Virgin Mother | |
| Lavishes her stores of grace. | |
| There for every wayworn wanderer | 5 |
| Gleams a friendly guiding star; | |
| There a peaceful port is open | |
| To the seaman, wrecked afar. | |
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| There, when tolls the bells at evening, | |
| Vales and mountains echo round; | 10 |
| From the cities, from the cloisters, | |
| All the bells send back the sound. | |
| Then each angry, bursting billow | |
| Sinks and dies along the shore, | |
| And the boatman whispers, “Avé!” | 15 |
| Kneeling, with suspended oar. | |
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| On the day whose hallowed morning | |
| Sees the Virgin heavenward soar, | |
| There to meet, revealed in glory, | |
| Him, the suffering Son she bore,— | 20 |
| Round her shrine, that festive morning, | |
| Wonders manifold appear; | |
| They who gaze on that bright image | |
| Feel a holier presence near. | |
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| Banners of the cross, resplendent, | 25 |
| Through the fields are on their way; | |
| Ships and boats, with painted streamers | |
| Gayly fluttering, line the bay. | |
| Up the rocky pathway climbing, | |
| Rich-clad pilgrims wind along, | 30 |
| Till the mountain seems a ladder | |
| Bearing up to heaven the throng. | |
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| In the rear, bedusted, barefoot, | |
| Coarse-clad devotees are there, | |
| Each with wan and wasted features, | 35 |
| Wrinkled hands and withered hair. | |
| ’Mongst the faithful in the temple | |
| These may never linger more, | |
| Ne’er again behold the altar,— | |
| They must kneel without the door. | 40 |
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| Who is he comes toiling yonder? | |
| From his eye gleams wild despair; | |
| In the breeze his white locks flutter, | |
| Thinned with sorrow, age, and care. | |
| From his wasted, trembling body | 45 |
| Hangs a black and galling chain; | |
| Round each limb an iron fetter | |
| Grinds the flesh with rending pain. | |
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| He, when hasty passion drove him | |
| Once a brother’s blood to spill, | 50 |
| Took the sword, and while ’t was reeking, | |
| Forged the chain that binds him still. | |
| Homeless, hopeless, now he wanders,— | |
| Seeks for peace, but seeks in vain; | |
| Grace alone, a wonder working, | 55 |
| Can unbind the galling chain. | |
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| He may tread on soles of iron, | |
| And, with naked, bony feet, | |
| Wander day and night, but never | |
| Find that peace, to man so sweet! | 60 |
| Not a saint looks down in pity, | |
| When he shrieks his nightly prayer; | |
| Not a shrine of heavenly mercy | |
| Answers to his wild despair. | |
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| Up the rocky pathway climbing, | 65 |
| Near the door behold him now, | |
| While the evening bell is tolling, | |
| And the crowds in silence bow. | |
| How he yearns the halls to enter, | |
| Where the Virgin’s image gleams, | 70 |
| As the western sun, descending, | |
| Through each rich-stained window beams! | |
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| What a blaze of tranquil glory | |
| Rests on meadow, sky, and shore! | |
| Say, when heaven received the Virgin, | 75 |
| Closed she not the golden door? | |
| Where yon rosy clouds are floating | |
| Trace we still her path on high? | |
| In the deep and tranquil azure | |
| Mark we still her beaming eye? | 80 |
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| Homeward throng the enraptured pilgrims; | |
| One still lingers at the place, | |
| Prostrate on the threshold lying, | |
| With a pale and ashen face. | |
| Rusty chains still fast around him, | 85 |
| There his quivering body lies; | |
| But his soul, now free forever, | |
| Floats in glory through the skies! | |
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