Part 12 (1/2)
With breaking sobs, with panting breath Christopher grasped a bent-held dune, Then with flung staff and as in death Forward he fell in a heavy swoon.
All night he lay in silence there, But safe from reach of surging tide: White angels had him in their care, Christ healed and watched him side by side.
When all the silver wings of dawn Had waved above the rose-flusht east, Christopher woke ... his dream was gone.
The angelic songs had ceased.
Was it a dream in very deed, He wondered, broken, trembling, dazed?
His staff he lifted from the mead And as an upright sapling raised.
Lo, it was as the monk had said-- If he would prove the vision true, His staff would blossom to its head With flowers of every lovely hue.
Christopher bowed: before his eyes Christ's love fulfilled the holy hour....
A south-wind blew, green leaves did rise And the staff bloomed a myriad flower!
Christopher bowed in holy prayer, While Christ's love fell like healing dew: G.o.d's father-hand was on him there: The peace of perfect peace he knew.
THE CROSS OF THE DUMB
_A Christmas on Iona, Long, Long Ago_
FIONA MACLEOD
One eve, when St. Columba strode In solemn mood along the sh.o.r.e, He met an angel on the road Who but a poor man's semblance bore.
He wondered much, the holy saint, What stranger sought the lonely isle, But seeing him weary and wan and faint St. Colum hailed him with a smile.
”Remote our lone Iona lies Here in the grey and windswept sea, And few are they whom my old eyes Behold as pilgrims bowing the knee....
”But welcome ... welcome ... stranger-guest, And come with me and you shall find A warm and deer-skinn'd cell for rest And at our board a welcome kind....
”Yet tell me ere the dune we cross How came you to this lonely land?
No curraghs in the tideway toss And none is beached upon the strand!”
The weary pilgrim raised his head And looked and smiled and said, ”From far, My wandering feet have here been led By the glory of a s.h.i.+ning star....”
St. Colum gravely bowed, and said, ”Enough, my friend, I ask no more; Doubtless some silence-vow was laid Upon thee, ere thou sought'st this sh.o.r.e:
”Now, come: and doff this raiment sad And those rough sandals from thy feet: The holy brethren will be glad To haven thee in our retreat.”
Together past the praying cells And past the wattle-woven dome Whence rang the tremulous vesper bells St. Colum brought the stranger home.
From thyme-sweet pastures grey with dews The milch-cows came with swinging tails: And whirling high the wailing mews Screamed o'er the brothers at their pails.
A single spire of smoke arose, And hung, a phantom, in the cold: Three younger monks set forth to close The ewes and lambs within the fold.
The purple twilight stole above The grey-green dunes, the furrowed leas: And Dusk, with breast as of a dove, Brooded: and everywhere was peace.
Within the low refectory sate The little clan of holy folk: Then, while the brothers mused and ate, The wayfarer arose and spoke....