Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Ralph Waldo Emerson, comp. (1803–1882). Parnassus: An Anthology of Poetry. 1880.

Sir Pavon and St. Pavon

Sarah Hammond Palfrey (1823–1914)

ST. MARK’S hushed abbey heard,

Through prayers, a roar and din;

A brawling voice did shout,

“Knave shaveling, let me in!”

The cagèd porter peeped,

All fluttering, through the grate,

Like birds that hear a mew.

A knight was at the gate.

His left hand reined his steed,

Still smoking from the ford;

His crimson right, that dangled, clutched

Half of his broken sword.

His broken plume flapped low;

His charger’s mane with mud

Was clogged; he wavered in his seat;

His mail dropped drops of blood.

“Who cometh in such haste?”

“Sir Pavon, late, I hight,

Of all the land around

The stanchest, mightiest knight.

“My foes—they dared not face—

Beset me at my back

In ambush. Fast and hard

They follow on my track.

“Now wilt thou let me in,

Or shall I burst the door?”

The grating bolts ground back; the knight

Lay swooning in his gore.

As children, half afraid,

Draw near a crushèd wasp,

Look, touch, and twitch away

Their hands, then lightly grasp,—

Him to their spital soon

The summoned brethren bore,

And searched his wounds. He woke,

And roundly cursed and swore.

The younger friar stopped his ears;

The elder chid. He flung

His gummy plasters at his mouth,

And bade him hold his tongue.

But, faint and weak, when, left

Upon his couch alone,

He viewed the valley, framed within

His window’s carven stone,

He learned anew to weep,

All as he lay along,

To see the smoke-wreaths from his towers

Climb up the clouds among.

The abbot came to bring

A balsam to his guest,

On soft feet tutored long

To break no sufferer’s rest,

And heard his sobbing heart

Drink deep in draughts of woe;

Then “Benedicite, my son,”

He breathed, in murmurs low.

Right sharply turned the knight

Upon the unwelcome spy;

But changed his shaggy face, as when,

Down through a stormy sky,

The quiet autumn sun

Looks on a landscape grim.

He crossed himself before the priest,

And speechless gazed on him.

His brow was large and grand,

And meet for governing;

The beauty of his holiness

Did crown him like a king.

His mien was high, yet mild;

His deep and reverent eye

Seemed o’er a peaceful past to gaze,—

A blest futurity.

His stainless earthy shell

Was worn so pure and thin,

That through the callow angel showed,

Half-hatched that stirred within.

The cloisters when he paced

At eve, the brethren said,

E’en then a shimmering halo dawned

Around his saintly head.

If forth he went, the street

Became a hallowed aisle.

Men knelt; and children ran to seek

The blessing of his smile;

And mothers on each side came out,

And stood at every door,

And held their babies up, and put

The weanlings forth before.

As pure white lambs unto

Men sickening unto death

Their sweet infectious health give out,

And heal them with their breath,

His white and thriving soul,

In heavenly pastures fed,

Still somewhat of its innocence

On all around him shed.

Sir Pavon’s scarce-stanched wounds

He bound with fearless skill,

Who lay and watched him, meek and mute,

And let him work his will,

While in his fevered brain

Thus mused his fancy quaint:

“My grandam told me once of saints,

And this is, sure, a saint!

“(I was a new-breeched boy,

And sat upon her knee,

Less mindful of the story than

Of cates she gave to me.)

“But then I thought a flood

Came down to drown them all,

And that they only now in stone

Stood on the minster wall,

“Or painted in the glass

Upon the window high,

Where, swelled with spring-tides, breaks the sea

Beneath, and leaves them dry,

“Quite out of danger’s way,

And breathed and walked no more

Upon the muddy earth, to do

The deeds they did of yore,

“When still the sick were healed

Where e’en their shadows fell;

But here is one that’s living yet,

And he shall make me well.”

The patient priest benign

His watch beside him kept,

Until he dropped his burning lids,

And like an infant slept.

Some weary weeks were spent

In tossing and in pain,

Before the knight’s huge frame was braced

With strength and steel again.

(He had his armor brought

The day he left his bed,

And fitted on by novice hands,

“To prop him up,” he said.)

Soon jangling then he stamped,

Amazed with all he saw,

Through cell and through refectory,

With little grace or awe.

Unbidden at the board

He sat, a mouthful took,

And shot it spattering through his beard,

Sprang up, and cursed the cook.

If some bowed friar passèd by,

He chucked him ’neath the chin,

And cried, “What cheer?” or, “Dost thou find

That hair-cloth pricks the skin?”

Or if he came on one

In meditation meet,

Or penance, mute, he kindly vowed

To cheer his lone retreat.

“Poor palsied sire,” he cried,

“How fares thy stiffened tongue?

Let mine suffice for both,”—and trolled

A lusty drinking-song.

One softly in his cell

Did scourge his meagre hide,

When Pavon on his rounds came in,

And stood, well pleased, beside:

“What, man! Lay on! lay on!

Nay, hast thou tired thine arm?

Give me thy hempen bunch of cords,

And I will make thee warm.”

With doubtful thanks agreed

The monk. Him Pavon whipped

Right deftly, through the cloister, till

For aid he cried and skipped.

In brief, within the house

Of holy Quiet, all

Where’er Sir Pavon went or came

Was outcry, noise, and brawl;

Until the abbot said,

“Anon this coil must cease.

To-morrow is the Truce of God;

Then let him go in peace.

“But call him hither first,

To render thanks to-night

For life restored; for now we go

To do our vesper rite.”

With tamèd mien abashed,

The wild, unruly guest

His hest obeyed, and mutely moved

Beside the solemn priest.

Unto a noiseless pace

He strove to curb his stride,

And blushed to hear his jack-boots’ clang

Amid the sandals’ slide.

The censer waved around

Its misty, sweet perfume,

As over him the minster great

Came with its awful gloom.

Through shadowy aisle, ’neath vaulted roof,

His faltering steps were led;

Beside him was the living saint,

Beneath, the sainted dead.

Bespread with nun-wrought tapestry,

The holy altar stood;

Above it, carved by martyr hands,

Arose the Holy Rood;

Burned round it, tipped with tongues of flame,

Vowed candles white and tall;

And frosted cup and patine, clear,

In silver, painted all.

The prisoned giant Music in

The rumbling organ rolled,

And roared sweet thunders up to heaven,

Through all its pipes of gold.

He started. ’Mid the prostrate throng

Upright, he heard the hymn

With fallen chin and lifted eye

That searched the arches dim;

For in the lurking echoes there

Responding, tone and word,

A choir of answering seraphim

Above he deemed he heard.

They saw him thus when all was done,

Still rapt and pale as death;

So passed he through the banging gate,

Then drew a long-drawn breath,

As to the priest he turned:

“I cannot ‘go in peace,’

Nor find elsewhere a man like thee,

Nor hear such strains as these!”

“This is no place for knights.”

“Then I a monk will be.”

“Kneel down upon thy knee, fair son,

And tell thy sins to me.”

“My knee is stiff with steel,

And will not bend it well.

‘My sins!’ A peerless knight like me,

What should he have to tell?

“I never turned in fight

Till treason wrought my harm,

Nor then, before my shattered sword

Weighed down my shattered arm.

“I never broke mine oath,

Forgot my friend or foe,

Nor left a benefit unpaid

With weal, or wrong with woe.

“‘Keep thee from me!’ I said,

Still, ere my blows began,

Nor gashed mine unarmed enemy,

Nor smote a fellèd man,

“Observing every rule

Of generous chivalry;

And maid and matron ever found

A champion leal in me.

“What gallantly I won

In war, I did not hoard,

But spent as gallantly in peace,

With neighbors round my board.”

“Thy neighbors, son? The serfs

For miles who tilled thy ground?”

“Tush, father, nay! The high-born knights

For many a league around.

“They were my brethren sworn,

In battle and in sport.

’Twere wondrous shame, should one like me

With beggar kernes consort!

“Clean have I made my shrift,”

He said; and so he ceased,

And bore a blithe and guileless cheer,

That sore perplexed the priest.

With words both soft and keen,

He searched his breast within.

Still said he, “So I sinnèd not,”

Or, “That is, sure, no sin.”

The abbot beat his breast:

“Alack, the man is lost!

Erewhile he must have grieved away

The warning Holy Ghost!

“His guardian angel he

Hath scared from him to heaven!

Who cannot mourn, nor see, his sin,

How can he be forgiven?

“E’en Patmos’ gentle seer,

Doth he not say, in sooth,

He lies who saith, I have no sin,

Quite empty of the truth!

“Search thou this sacred tome.”

“’Sblood!—Saints!—A knight to read!”

The abbot read. The novice strove,

With duteous face, to heed,

But heard a hunt sweep by,

And to the door did leap,

Cried, “Holla, ho!” and then, abashed,

Sat down and dropped asleep.

“Such novice ne’er I saw!

Sweet Mary be my speed!

For sure the sorer is my task,

The sorer is his need.”

He gazed upon him long,

With pondering, pitying eyes,

As the leech on the sick whose hidden ail

All herbs and drugs defies;

And, “Hath thy heart might,” at last, “to-night,”

He to Sir Pavon said,

“When all men sleep, thy vigil to keep,

In the crypt among the dead?

“Night hath many a tongue, her black hours among,

Less false than the tongues of Day,

While Mercy the prayer hath full leisure to hear,

Of all who wake to pray.

“The mute swart queen hides many a sin,

But oft to the sinner’s heart

Remorse, with the tale, she sends to wail,

And thus atones in part.”

Well-nigh laughed the knight, “Ay, and many a night,

Good father, do not spare.

Ne’er yet have I found, on or under the ground,

The venture I could not dare.

“Ten years I’ve quelled in war lively warriors, near and far;

Shall I shun a dead clerk’s bones to see?

Ne’er till now I pledged my hand to serve in the band

Of captain I loved like thee.”

Sir Pavon sat upon his shield,

And breathed the earthy damp,

And strained his empty ear to hear

The simmering of his lamp.

It made a little tent of light,

Hung round with shadows dim,

That drooped as if the low-groined roof

Did crouch to fall on him.

The stunted columns, thick and short,

Like sentry gnomes stood round;

And lettered slabs, that roofed the dead,

Lay thickly on the ground.

He watched to hear the midnight lauds,

But heard them not until

He deemed it dawn. They swelled at last,

And ceased; and all was still.

The Future towards him marched no more;

The Past was dead and gone;

Time dwindled to a single point;

The convent-clock toiled One.

Then the door was oped and closed,

But by no human hand;

And there entered in a Cry,

And before him seemed to stand,—

A viewless, bodiless Cry,

That lifted the hair on his head;—

’Twas small as a new-born babe’s at first,

But straightway it rose and spread,

Till it knocked against the roof,

And his ears they rang and beat;

The hard walls throbbed around, above,

And the stones crept under his feet;

And when it fell away,

He reeled and almost fell;

And fast for aid he gasped and prayed,

Till he heard the matin-bell.

The monk who came to let him out

Scarce knew him. In that night,

His nut-brown beard and crispèd hair

Had turned to snowy white.

Like to a hunted beast,

To Abbot Urban’s cell

He rushed; and with a foamy lip

Down at his feet he fell:

“I heard a voice,—a voice!—

O father, help! It said

That I the Lord of life

Had scourged and buffeted,

“Spit in his face, and mocked,

And sold him to his foes;

Then, through the hollow earth,

In dreary triumph rose

“Up, till the words I snatched,

A fiendish chorus dim,

‘He did it unto one of HIS!

He did it unto HIM!’”

“My son, what meaneth this?”

“My father, on my word,

In court or camp, abroad, at home,

I never knew the Lord!

“I do remember once

I had a hunchback slave,

Who to the beggars round my door

From his own trencher gave,

“And made them swarm the more,

Despite the porter’s blows,

And broke into my banquet-hall,

With tidings of their woes.

“Him I chastised and sold,

But thought no harm, nor knew

The Lord so squalid minions had,

Among his chosen few;

“But if the man was his,

I’ll freely give thee thrice,

In broad, bright rounds of ruddy gold,

The pittance of his price.”

“Gold buys this world, not heaven.

This cannot make thee whole.

Each stripe that rends the slave’s poor flesh,

It hurts his Master’s soul;

“And if the slave doth die,”

He said beneath his breath,

“I fear the Masters sprite for aye

Rots in the second death.

“But be of better cheer.

Since thou thy sin canst see,

’Tis plain thy guardian angel back

Hath flown from heaven to thee.

“The soul benumbed by sin,

And limb that’s numb with frost,

Are saved by timely aches. If first

They reach the fire, they’re lost.

“The Sun of righteousness,

Whose beaming smile on high,

With light, and life, and love doth fill

The mansions of the sky,

“And kindles risen souls

Unto a rapturous glow,

Who duly sought his scattered rays,

To bask in them below,

“Seems but a hideous glare

Of blazing pangs untold,

To those whom death hath made more pale,

But could not make more cold.

“Full many a man like thee,

Unless by devils driven,

Would never turn his laggard steps

To hurry unto heaven.

“Thank God, who oped thine ear

Unto their dreary lay,

Ere came the night that summoned thee

To chant with them for aye!

“That holy text, which through

Their gnashing teeth they laughed

And screamed, I read thee yester eve,

And they with wonted craft

“Told o’er, their fright and pain

That thou shouldst come to share,

As birds by hissing serpents scared

Drop down, through sheer despair.

“But in its two pure hands

Each holy Scripture still

Doth bear a blessing for the good,

A curse unto the ill.

“Heed thou, but do not fear

Too much their threatening voice,

Who tremble and believe. Thou yet

Believing mayst rejoice.

“Take up thy cross with speed.

This penance shalt thou do;

Thyself in sad humility

To seek Christ’s servant go,

“Both near and far; and dry

His tears with thine, if still

His limbs the toil-exacting earth

In misery tread and till.”

His forehead from his hands

Upraised the haggard guest:

“And even here, and even yet,

For me no heavenly rest!”

The abbot shook his head:

“God help thee now, poor son!

The heavenly rest is but for those

Who heavenly work have done.

“Strife is the bridge o’er hell

’Twixt sin and sin forgiven;

Still purgatory lies between

The wicked world and heaven.

“The priceless pearl is worth

The plunge through whelming floods.

The bitter years man loathes are but

Eternity’s green buds.

“Thou hast, in Satan’s ranks,

To harm been brisk and brave;

Thou wilt not shrink, when sent by Christ

To suffer and to save.”

Sir Pavon’s gallant steed was dead;

Sir Pavon’s sword was broke.

On foot he went; and in his hand

The abbot’s staff he took,

And many an hour fared patiently,

Beneath the parching sun,

That eyed him through his riven wall

Before the day was done.

The shattered casements gaped and stared;

Black charcoal paved the floor;

Up rose his hunger-maddened hound,

And bit him in the door.

He climbed the scathed and tottering stair

Unto the sooty tower;

His rifled coffers upside down

Lay in his secret bower.

With heavy heart and tread he trod

The banquet-hall below;

The hollow-voicèd echoes chid

Each other, to and fro.

A jeering face peeped in; he heard

A titter and a shout;

In rushed his rabble rout of hinds,

And round him danced about:

“Ho, worthy master, welcome home!

Where hast thou left thy sword,

Thy kingly port, and lusty blows?

We serve another lord.”

They strove to trip him as he went;

They drove him from his door:

“Now fare ye well, my fathers’ halls!

We part to meet no more.

“Farewell my pride and pomp and power!

Farewell, my slippery wealth,

That bought my soul’s sore malady,

Nor stayed to buy my health!

“Farewell, my sturdy strength, that did

The Devil’s work so well,

All blasted by God’s thunderbolts,

That on my spirit fell!

“And thou, O brave and loyal Christ,

Who, ’mid the sordid Jews,

By love, not fear, constrainèd couldst

At Satan’s hands refuse

“The crown and sceptre of the world,

And choose the cross and rod,—

Thy more than earthly manhood in

Its glory unto God

“Lay down,—accept, and do not scorn

The beaten losel me,

Who, worthless for thy service, come

For shelter unto thee.”

Walked with him flagging Weariness;

And Famine spun his head:

“I would, of all my feasts, were left

One little crust of bread.”

When maids and stars their tapers lit,

He reached a wooden hut;

The chinks were gilt by light therein,

But close the door was shut.

What seemed an aged woman’s voice

Within, with sob and groan,

Entreated Heaven in agony

To send her back her son:

“The day is night that shows me not

His face,—the voice of joy

Mere heart-break till his laugh I hear!

O, send me back my boy!

“In pity send some tidings soon!

If thus I grieve, I dread

Lest, when he hurries back to me,—

Poor youth!—he find me dead.

“Let them not tell me he is dead,

And buried anywhere!

What has the ground or brine to do

With his dear mouth and hair,

“That I have kissed and stroked so oft

There by his empty chair?

Yon doublet new, I’ve wrought for him,

He’ll soon come back to wear.

“I brushed the very flies away,

That with his brows did toy,

When tired he slept. How could the worms

Or fishes eat my boy?

“O Father, who thine only Son

Didst yield to pain and death,

And know’st ’tis deadlier pain to do’t,

Than give the rattling breath,

“If not my boy, let unto me

His faith and trust be given,

That I may clasp him yet again,

If not on earth, in heaven.”

She ceased. Sir Pavon softly knocked;

The door flew open wide.

“Fear not, good mother,” he began.

“O, is it thou?” she cried,

Then turned away and wrung her hands.

“If thou wilt give to me

A morsel, and a cup of wine,

Perchance thy charity,

“When ended is my present quest,

I may full well requite,

If lives thy son, and bring him back.

I am a famous knight,—

“Although of late mine ambushed foe

Despoiled me traitorly,—

And maid and matron ever found

A champion leal in me.”

“Alack, I have no wine nor flesh,

Nor yet a crust of bread!

Herbs for my noontide meal I culled,

Untasted still,” she said;

“And water from the brook I’ll bring,—

Scant fare for hungry guest!—

But sit thee down at least, and feed

Thy weariness with rest.

“Thou hast seen other lands perchance?”

“Good mother, many a one.

I pray you fill my cup once more.”

“O, hast thou seen my son?”

“Went he a soldier?” “Nay, but he

Was seized and sold away,

I know not where. No news of him

Has reached me from that day.

“He bade me still with wayfarers

His scanty portion share.

Thou eatest from his platter now,

And sittest in his chair.

“He was so good!” “Who used him so?”

“Sir Pavon was his name.”

His platter dropped, and over him

A deadly sickness came.

“I knew not half my guilt!” he shrieked,

And on his brow did strike;

These mothers are like God, then,—love

Ugly and fair alike!

“’Twas I. Thou art avenged on me.

To find him is my quest;

Nor till ’tis done, in life or death,

For me is any rest.

“God’s heaviest hand is for his sake

Meanwhile upon me laid.

For his deliverance pray, and mine;

And take me in his stead.

“A duteous son I’ll be to thee

Until I give him back.

I’ve many friends would give us steeds

To bear us on his track.”

“Who may yon man be, who on foot

Comes in his iron coat,

And, with an old wife at his side,

Toils towards the castle-moat?

“He looketh as Sir Pavon should

If thirty years were o’er;

But he is dead, they say. We’ll know.

Ho, there! The drawbridge lower!

“What, Pavon! Hast thou come to life?

Thou lookest like a ghost.”

“Nigh slain was I by treachery:

My sword and all is lost.

“And I was ill, and worse. Alas!

With thee I may not bide,

But day and night, by fiends pursued,

Upon a quest must ride,

“To free my soul, that erst I sold

To bondage with a slave.

My merry life is dead in me!

Myself a haunted grave!

“Of thy dear love, long pledged and sworn,

Some food and drink I pray

For this poor dame, and gold and steeds,

To bear us on our way.”

He reeled with weakness: “He is starved.

Lead hence, and feed him well;

And when our feast is done to-night,

His tale we’ll hear him tell.

“He’s crazed with shame, as erst with pride,—

Perchance ’twill please my guests

To list. My fool is growing old,

And oft repeats his jests.”

Scarce were they at the burdened board

Ranged by the seneschal,

When Pavon fed and calmed came in,

And stood before them all,

And clasped each slackened hand, and smiled

In many a well-known face,

And fell upon some cooling hearts

Once more in kind embrace:

“Dear mates, how good it is to stand

Again among you here,

Though ’neath my ruined towers no more

We make our wonted cheer!

“I must not stay; but list a word,

And mark it well, before

I look my last upon you all,

Perchance, forevermore.

“Among the tombs I sat, and heard

Within me or without,—

I know not which,—a horrid voice:

It drives me still about.

“A wondrous thing it told to me,

As terrible as new,

Undreamed of to that hour by me,

To this, I ween, by you.

“Christ ’mid the serfs hath men, whom he

Dear as himself doth hold;

Thus he who sells his Christian slave,

His master, Christ, hath sold,

“For from the very book of peace

The fiends have learned a hymn,—

‘Who did it unto one of his,

Hath done it unto him.’”

Each in his neighbors’ faces looked;

And some were pale with fear;

“Out!” roared the host, “ye serving men,

What make ye gaping here,

“To swallow what concerns you not?

Such ravings if they hear,

They’ll rave themselves. I saw them all

Prick up each meddling ear.

“Your pardon, noble comrades all;

A very sorry jest

Was this to make you sport withal;

He told me of a quest.”

“My quest it is to find and free

The hunchback, whom of old,

When thou wert wassailing with me

At Christmastide, I sold.

“Look not so darkly on me, friends,

I will not mar your feast;

But, Raymond, for the red-roan steeds

I lent thee, give at least

“To me one jennet, mule, or ass,

That I thereon may lead

His blister-footed mother hence,

And make the better speed.”

“Poor man, his case is pitiful.

If madman e’er I saw,

He’s mad! What say ye? Let him go?

Or give him chains and straw!”

“He was a gallant champion late!”

“He’s harmless; let him go.”

“Nay, if he stirreth up the serfs

I cannot count him so.”

Then rage brought back Sir Pavon’s strength:

He dashed the casement through,

Leaped headlong down, and all in steel

He swam the moat below.

Forth swarmed the varlets sent, for him,

But soon returned without,

So hotly with the abbot’s staff

He ’mongst them laid about.

His comrades from the battlements

Looked wondering down to see

The knight the hobbling crone await,

With pity and with glee.

He paced to meet her courteously;

He propped her with his arm,

And with his staff, and bent as if

To soothe her weak alarm;

But with a bitter laugh he said,

“Sure, he who findeth out

How fickle are the world’s sweet smiles,

Can do its smiles without.”

Long years of hunger, cold, and heat,

And home-sick toil in vain;—

Long years of wandering up and down,

O’er inland, coast, and main;—

Long years of asking still for one,

And longing day and night,

Who, ever present with the soul,

Hath vanished from the sight!

The freeman like a growing tree

Thrives, rooted in his place;

The bondman, like a withered leaf,

Flits on and leaves no trace.

Sir Pavon’s armor rusted off;

He seemed no more a knight;

Yet ever to himself he said,

While raged his inward fight,

“How quickly may a wrong be done,

How slowly done away!

Shall all eternity repair

My trespass of a day?”

While some said, “East,” and some said, “West,”

And most, “I cannot tell,”

They ate the stranger’s crusts, and drank

At many a stranger’s well.

He ever walked, or stood, or sat,

Between her and the blast.

She cheered him with forgiving words,

And begged his scant repast.

In penitent and pardoning woe,

Thus went they hand in hand,

The master and the slave. They trod

The cactus-hatching sand.

They stood beneath the snowy pole,

Where, quenched, the heavenward eye,

Sinks dizzy back to earth, beneath

The crumbling, sinking sky.

“O, sail-borne trader, hast thou seen,

In lands beneath the sun,

Or in the shadow of the pole,

My Anselm? O my son!”

“A pilgrim, dame?” “A slave.” “A slave!

Ask, have I seen a sheep!

Ay, flocks and flocks, where’er I go.

Yon Moors their hundreds keep,—

“The lazy tawny dogs!—beyond,

Where ’twixt these fronting lands

The writhing sea his pent-up way

Tears ’twixt the rocks and sands.”

“He is like no one else. His face

Is wondrous mild and fair;

His eyes are kind and bright; and fine

And silky is his hair.”

“Ha, ha! So whines the shepherd lad

Whose petted ewe hath strayed!”

“He bore a hump upon his back,”

Sir Pavon softly said,—

“Was helpful to the poor beyond

The custom of mankind.”

Before the statelier questioner

The merchant searched his mind.

“Such slave I saw in Barbary,

A twelvemonth scarce agone.

A fever-smitten sailor there

We left to die alone;—

“It grieved me much. We could not choose.

Our venture had been lost,

Had we not seized the first fair gale

To sweep us from the coast.

“I hurried back. I thought to see

His living face no more,

But haply give him burial.

He met me on the shore,

“Thin as this blade, and white as is

This handle of my knife.

A slave, he said, had ta’en him in

And nursed him like a wife,

“A hunchback, for he showed me him.

How called you yours?” “His name

Was Anselm.” “Ay, and so was his,

It is the very same.

“Old Hassan’s steward in the sun

Doth beat him to and fro;

He limps with water from the tanks

To make the melons grow.

“See how my Sea-gull flaps her wings,

Impatient for the deep!

Anon shall she to Tripoli

So lightly dart and leap;

“And for that bounteous deed of his

His mother shall he see;—

What costs a good turn now and then?—

Embark and sail with me,

“For nothing,—if ye nothing have.

They’ll call for little food,

On landlocked billows, sickened by

The tossing of the flood.”

The anchor climbed. The wind blew fair,

But ere they neared the pier

The old wife on death’s threshold lay,

Distraught with hope and fear.

“How canst thou free him from his woes?

Thou hast nor friends nor gold.

How may I even crawl to him

His misery to behold?

“O master, trail me through the dust

And leave me at his feet!”

“Nay, thou wert patient all those years.

Here, sheltered from the heat,

“A little longer wait and pray;

It may be but an hour.

Our Lord, who bade to succor him,

I think shall give the power.

“And, merchant, if he fly with me

Wilt bear him hence?” “My head,

And thine, were lost belike! Art mad?

’Twould surely cost my trade.

“I buy and sell, but steal not, slaves!”

“Thou’rt known to Hassan?” “Ay.”

“Then lead me to him; and the Lord,

I think, the slave shall buy.

“Then wilt thou bear him hence, and her?”

“Ay, on mine honest word.

Oft as I may, I gladly do

A pleasure to the Lord.”

Turbaned and robed old Hassan sat.

An atmosphere of rest

Hung brooding o’er his soft divan,

His beard slept on his breast.

His rolling eyes upon the floor

Did round about him fall,

To thread the mazy arabesques

Paved in his marble hall.

They shone and glimmered moist with dew,

While, robed in spangled spray,

Amidst them high a fountain danced

In whispering, tittering play.

No joy, grief, awe, nor doubt looked through

His features swart and still;

“I ought” had ne’er been written there,

But petrified, “I will.”

“What wouldst thou, merchant?” “Nothing, I;

This godly man would speak,

A very godly man!—Methinks

His wits are somewhat weak.”

“Good Hassan, for thy hunchback slave

I’ve sought through dreary years;

Wilt give him up?” “In change for what?”

“Our prayers and grateful tears.”

“I want them not.” “Thou mayst one day!

When misbelievers stand

Amazed in judgment, he shall plead

For thee at God’s right hand;

“His mother, too;—they’re dear to Christ;

I know it all too well!

And I up from my lower place

Will cry aloft and tell,

“That thou art he my sinking soul

Who lifted out of hell;

Till all the saints shall join with me,

O blessed infidel!”

“Hast nothing else to offer?” “Ay,

To serve thee faithfully,

Another slave I’ll give,—myself,—

As stout a wight as he.”

“Nought hast thou of his look; yet sure

He is thy son or brother?”

“My serf of yore.” “’Tis strange, if true!

Most Christians hate each other.

“I take thy proffer, false or fair;

But if to me thou liest,

And seek’st to steal thyself away,

E’en in my gates thou diest.”

He clapped his hands; and in there rushed

A turbaned menial throng.

Strange words he spake. A dusky Moor

Good Pavon led along,

With bounding heart, and beaded brow,

And paling, glowing cheek,

And trembling lips compressed, that strove

To brace themselves to speak,

Through cool, dank courts, and sultry paths,

Till, ’twixt the twinkling twigs

Of citron, and of orange-trees,

And sun-bathed purple figs,

He saw the fattening melons bask

On beds both long and broad,

And Anselm, staggering forth to them,

Bent ’neath his watery load.

He oped his mouth to call on him;

Amazed, he did but choke;

For with its mighty wrath and joy,

His great heart almost broke.

He darted on his track, and wrenched

His pitcher from his hand.

The slave dropped back his drooping head,

And strove to understand,

With bony fingers interlaced

His dazzled eyes above,

Why came the tall mute man to him,

In enmity or love.

Then muttered he, “This scorching sun

At last hath fired my brain!

I seem to see one far away,

Perchance long dead again,—

“Sir Pavon! ’Tis some fancy, bred

Of famine, wild and weak,

Or fever. Wherefore gaze on it?

If ’twas a man ’twould speak.”

Then Pavon in a storm of tears

Fell crying on his breast:

“Forgive me, brother, if thou canst!

I’ve known no peace nor rest,

“For years or ages, but to right

The wrong I did to thee,

And mine own soul, roamed o’er the earth!

From henceforth thou art free.”

“Sir Pavon! Is it thou?—and here?”

“Ay; and I hold thee fast

In verity, as oft in dreams,

When, as my slumber past,

“’Mid fading forms I clutched at thine,

’Mid fading visioned lands,

And shouting woke, with bloody nails

Clenched in mine empty hands.”

“God! Heardst thou then my hopeless prayers?

He’s saved!—And am I free?”

“Ay, go thy ways in joy, poor friend,

Nor cease to pray for me.

“The merchant Andrew on the shore

Awaits thee, in his bark.

His homeward voyage bears him by

The abbey of St. Mark.

“The monks, for Abbot Urban’s sake,

Will house and feed thine age

When thou hast told to them the end

Of Pavon’s pilgrimage,

“By him enjoined. Though he be dead,

He must remembered be

By novices he nurtured.” “Sir,

Dost thou not come with me?

“Long wilt thou tarry?” “Be content.”

“Not to forsake thee here.

I’ll serve thee in this homesick land

For love, as erst from fear.”

“Go thou. I stay.” A change came o’er

The hunchback’s raptured face:

“Why stays he, Selim, know’st?” “To draw

Our water in thy place.”

He tore his hair; he turned away;

He spake: “It shall not be!

All blessings bless thee for the thought,

But ’twere not meet for thee!

“Few years are left me on the earth;

And God hath taught to me

That willing bondage borne in Christ

Is loftier liberty.”

“Then grudge it not unto thy lord,”

St. Pavon following said.

The slave took up his water-pots,

Moved on, and shook his head.

“This is my penance I must do,

Or be for aye abhorred

Of Heaven.” “I’ll help thee bear it.”

“Nay, stint not mine earned reward!”

St. Pavon’s eyes and hands on his

He fixed, and joyously

Cried, “Laggard son, thy mother waits

Among the ships for thee!”

The new slave let the melons thirst

Till, through the twinkling twigs

Of citron, and of orange-flowers,

And sun-bathed purple figs,

He saw the hunchback hurry o’er

The beach, and scale the deck,

Towards outstretched arms, that like a trap

Did spring and catch his neck.

Then out he let his pent-up breath,

Which seemed to blow away,

In one great sigh, his life’s great woe,

And to himself did say,

“Howe’er, where’er now, in this world

Or that, my lot may fall,

I bear this scene in memory,

And I can bear it all.”

Then to his task he turned, with mien

As eager and as bold

As when his brethren’s blood plashed round

His iron march of old.

Joy drained his lees of life nigh-spent

All in one brimming cup,—

One wasteful draught of feverish strength,—

And bade him drink it up.

He dragged the sinking waters out:

He dashed them on the ground;

He panted to and fro; well-nigh

The melons swam or drowned.

Sly women’s jet and diamond eyes

Did near the lattice lurk,

And twinkle through its screen, to see

The Christian madman work.

The steward cried, “By Mahmoud’s beard,

Some demon toils within

Yon unbeliever, or a troop

Of slaves in one’s shrunk skin.”

Above him like a vulture came

The noontide sun, and beat

Upon his old bald head, and pricked

Through all his frame with heat;

It set but spurs unto his zeal:

“O Christ, and didst thou see

My brother in this torment gasp,

And through my cruelty!”

His short-lived might sank with the light;

Black turned the red-hot day;

He scarce could drag to Anselm’s lair

His heavy limbs away.

He heard a sound; he felt a light;

He deemed it was the dawn.

He oped his eyes; and, lo! the veil

Of glory was withdrawn;

A radiance brighter than the sun,

And sweeter than the moon,

Showed earth a part of heaven! He sighed,

“’Tis a God-granted boon,—

“A vision sent to cheer my soul,—

A glimpse of Paradise!

O, fade not yet! A moment more,

Ere to my toil I rise.”

A quivering fanned the air; and shapes

Like wingèd Joys stood round.

“Arise!” they said. He rose and left

His body on the ground,

His weariness and age. Surprised

With sudden buoyancy

And ease, he turned and saw aghast

His ghastly effigy.

“’Tis but a dream!” “’Tis heaven.” “For me?

Not yet! not yet!” he said;

“I am a traitor! Give me time!

O, let me not be dead!

“In mercy put me back to toil

And scorch, nor bid me brook,

Ere I’ve avenged him well on me,

Mine outraged Master’s look!”

A tender smile glowed through them all.

“Brave martyr, do not fear.

Our Master calls! He waits for thee

To share his bridal cheer!

“Full many a weary year is told,

As mortals tell their years,

Since loud we struck our harps, and sang

Thy triumph o’er thy tears.”

Before him, spreading welcoming arms,

A shining Urban stood:

“God gave thee grace to overcome

Thine evil with thy good.

“My lesson, brother, hast forgot?—

I taught to thee of yore,

That blessings hid, their threats amid,

The awful Scriptures bore.”

Then Pavon to his dear embrace

In wildered transports sprang;

And up the sunny morn they soared.

The dwindling earth did hang

Beneath. The air flapped, white with wings

That thickened all about;

And wide a song of triumph pealed

And rang this burden out:

“To wrest him out of Satan’s hands

His charity sufficed;

He did it unto one of CHRIST’S,

He did it unto CHRIST!”