Then back again his curls he threw, Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done; I doubt not thou art heard, my son: 12 66 As well as if thy voice to-day Were praising God, the Pope's great way. "This Easter Day, the Pope at Rome Praises God from Peter's dome." Said Theocrite, "Would God that I Night passed, day shone, And Theocrite was gone. With God a day endures alway, A thousand years are but a day. 16 20 God said in heaven, "Nor day nor night 24 Then Gabriel, like a rainbow's birth, Spread his wings and sank to earth; Entered, in flesh, the empty cell, Lived there, and played the craftsman well; 28 And morning, evening, noon and night, And from a boy, to youth he grew: The man matured and fell away And ever o'er the trade he bent, (He did God's will; to him, all one If on the earth or in the sun.) God said, "A praise is in mine ear; 66 So sing old worlds, and so New worlds that from my footstool go. 66 Clearer loves sound other ways: 32 36 40 I miss my little human praise." Then forth sprang Gabriel's wings, off fell 'T was Easter Day: he flew to Rome, And paused above Saint Peter's dome. In the tiring-room close by With his holy vestments dight, 44 48 52 And all his past career Came back upon him clear, Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, And in his cell, when death drew near, 56 And rising from the sickness drear, 60 To the East with praise he turned, "I bore thee from thy craftsman's cell, And set thee here; I did not well. 64 "Vainly I left my angel-sphere, Vain was thy dream of many a year. "Thy voice's praise seemed weak; it dropped Creation's chorus stopped! 68 "With that weak voice of our disdain, Take up creation's pausing strain. "Back to the cell and poor employ: Resume the craftsman and the boy!" 72 Theocrite grew old at home; A new Pope dwelt in Peter's dome. One vanished as the other died: 1844. Robert Browning. 76 SAINT BRANDAN SAINT BRANDAN sails the northern main; So late!-such storms!-The Saint is mad! 4 He heard, across the howling seas, But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd- The hurtling Polar lights are near'd, At last—(it was the Christmas night; 8 12 16 That furtive mien, that scowling eye, Of hair that red and tufted fell- Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; The moon was bright, the iceberg near. He hears a voice sigh humbly: "Wait! By high permission I am here. "One moment wait, thou holy man! On earth my crime, my death, they knew; My name is under all men's ban Ah, tell them of my respite too! "Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night- 'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, "I felt, as I in torment lay An angel touch mine arm, and say: Go hence and cool thyself an hour! “Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said. The Leper recollect, said he, Who ask'd the passers-by for aid, In Joppa, and thy charity. "Then I remember'd how I went, In Joppa, through a public street, 20 24 28 32 36 40 |