Part 30 (1/2)
When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet A white-headed man slowly pacing the street; His trembling hand shading his lack-l.u.s.tre eye, Half blind with continually scanning the sky.
Rumor points him as some astronomical sage, Re-perusing by day the celestial page; But the reader, sagacious, will recognize Brown, Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, And learn the stern moral this story must teach, That Genius may lift its love out of its reach.
A LEGEND OF COLOGNE
Above the bones St. Ursula owns, And those of the virgins she chaperons; Above the boats, And the bridge that floats, And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats; Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs; Above Newmarket's open s.p.a.ce, Above that consecrated place Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are, And the dozen shops of the real Farina; Higher than even old Hohestra.s.se, Whose houses threaten the timid pa.s.ser,-- Above them all, Through scaffolds tall, And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, The great Cologne's Cathedral stones Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters.
Unfinished there, In high mid-air The towers halt like a broken prayer; Through years belated, Unconsummated, The hope of its architect quite frustrated.
Its very youth They say, forsooth, With a quite improper purpose mated; And every stone With a curse of its own Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated, Since the day its choir, Which all admire, By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated.
Ah! THAT was a day, One well might say, To be marked with the largest, whitest stone To be found in the towers of all Cologne!
Along the Rhine, From old Rheinstein, The people flowed like their own good wine.
From Rudesheim, And Geisenheim, And every spot that is known to rhyme; From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen, To the pictured roofs of a.s.smannshausen, And down the track, From quaint Schwalbach To the cl.u.s.tering tiles of Bacharach; From Bingen, hence To old Coblentz: From every castellated crag, Where the robber chieftains kept their ”swag,”
The folk flowed in, and Ober-Ca.s.sel Shone with the pomp of knight and va.s.sal; And pouring in from near and far, As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr, Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel, Choked up the city's gates with men From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen.
What had they come to see? Ah me!
I fear no glitter of pageantry, Nor sacred zeal For Church's weal, Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal; Nor childlike trust in frank confession Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression, Still in each nest On every crest Kept stolen goods in their possession; But only their gout For something new, More rare than the ”roast” of a wandering Jew; Or--to be exact-- To see--in fact-- A Christian soul, in the very act Of being d.a.m.ned, secundum artem, By the devil, before a soul could part 'em.
For a rumor had flown Throughout Cologne That the church, in fact, was the devil's own; That its architect (Being long ”suspect”) Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked Not only his OWN soul, but had lost The VERY FIRST CHRISTIAN SOUL that crossed The sacred threshold: and all, in fine, For that very beautiful design Of the wonderful choir They were pleased to admire.
And really, he must be allowed to say-- To speak in a purely business way-- That, taking the ruling market prices Of souls and churches, in such a crisis It would be shown-- And his Grace must own-- It was really a BARGAIN for Cologne!
Such was the tale That turned cheeks pale With the thought that the enemy might prevail, And the church doors snap With a thunderclap On a Christian soul in that devil's trap.
But a wiser few, Who thought that they knew Cologne's Archbishop, replied, ”Pooh, pooh!
Just watch him and wait, And as sure as fate, You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate.”
One here might note How the popular vote, As shown in all legends and anecdote, Declares that a breach Of trust to o'erreach The devil is something quite proper for each.
And, really, if you Give the devil his due In spite of the proverb--it's something you'll rue.
But to lie and deceive him, To use and to leave him, From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him, Though no one has heard It ever averred That the ”Father of Lies” ever yet broke HIS word, But has left this position, In every tradition, To be taken alone by the ”truth-loving” Christian!
Bom! from the tower!
It is the hour!
The host pours in, in its pomp and power Of banners and pyx, And high crucifix, And crosiers and other processional sticks, And no end of Marys In quaint reliquaries, To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries; And an Osculum Pacis (A myth to the ma.s.ses Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuira.s.ses)-- All borne by the throng Who are marching along To the square of the Dom with processional song, With the flaring of dips, And bending of hips, And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips; And some good little boys Who had come up from Neuss And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice: All march to the square Of the great Dom, and there File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare A covered sedan, Containing--so ran The rumor--the victim to take off the ban.
They have left it alone, They have sprinkled each stone Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne, Guaranteed in this case To disguise every trace Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place.
Two Carmelites stand On the right and left hand Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command Of the prelate to throw Up the cover and show The form of the victim in terror below.
There's a pause and a prayer, Then the signal, and there-- Is a WOMAN!--by all that is good and is fair!
A woman! and known To them all--one must own TOO WELL KNOWN to the many, to-day to be shown As a martyr, or e'en As a Christian! A queen Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen; So bad that the worst Of Cologne spake up first, And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst, And already a fief Of the Satanic chief, To martyr herself for the Church's relief.
But in vain fell their sneer On the mob, who I fear On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer.
A woman! and there She stands in the glare Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare,-- A woman still young, With garments that clung To a figure, though wasted with pa.s.sion and wrung With remorse and despair, Yet still pa.s.sing fair, With jewels and gold in her dark s.h.i.+ning hair, And cheeks that are faint 'Neath her dyes and her paint.
A woman most surely--but hardly a saint!
She moves. She has gone From their pity and scorn; She has mounted alone The first step of stone, And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, Then pauses and turns, As the altar blaze burns On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns Archbishop and Prior, Knight, ladye, and friar, And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir.
”O men of Cologne!
What I WAS ye have known; What I AM, as I stand here, One knoweth alone.
If it be but His will I shall pa.s.s from Him still, Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill; If still by that sign Of His anger divine One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine.
O men of Cologne!