3991 4IL45 8 ^=^= c to — — ^ =^= 2 "~- INALL r==^^ RARY FACIt = — ; 1 Legend of Saint Bernard THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES , THE LEGEND OF ST. BERNARD. THE LEGEND OF ST. BERNARD A POEM, WITH NOTES, NOT PUBLISHED. XortDttl; : 'HINTED BY BACON, KINNEB110OK, AND BACON. THE LEGEND OF ST. BERNARD CANTO 1. Bright were thy early days old feudal pile I 1 When echoing through thy paved and fretted halls The tramp of mailed feet proclaimed thy state, And throng'd retainers filing from thy courts Mingled their war cries with the av'lanche roar Sent forth amid thy mountains ; waxing bold And more determined 'gainst their fellow men, As nature, frowning from her unscal'd holds Defied the efforts of their puny power. And yet, proud keep ! thou knewest not the gem Like diamond prisoned in its native mine Within thy ramparts pent, to waste its fire Till time should call it from its hidden cell 917 THE LEGEND OF To shame its earthly dwelling place, and shed A sacred lustre o'er th' admiring world. Apart from all the empty revelry And wine-fed mirth of knightly banquet, sate The heir of Menthon and its pomp ; a youth 2 Whose pride of boyhood chafing at the slow Progressive march of years, had leap'd at once Into refulgent manhood, though his form Retained the lingering charm of early grace, Like the young tendril, vigorous, yet slow To loose the fairy clasp of tender growth. The morning lustre of his eyes, unwet By sorrow's dew — the full expressive lip, That fearless herald of unclouded thought — The chiselled features, and the sinewy hand Moulded for action as it grasps the sword Before him thrown — all are unstained and pure — And though upon the mirror of his soul Passion had lately breathed, the transient cloud Had made its images more soft, more vague, But not less beautiful ; his marble brow Shining above the illuminated page, Appeared a temple of exalted thought ST. BERNARD. Where holiness had shed her benison And closed it from the world. Still o'er the book In deep abstraction sits the youth, and twice Ere his shut sense receives the sound, a horn Is winded 'neath the turret ! Suddenly He starts, and kissing reverently the page — " What ! is the hour arrived ? Must clang of arms liuuze my rapt mind with iron dissonance From dreams of peace and heav'n ? I come, I come Impatient warder ! Yet ere morning break, Ere yet I bind to this reluctant side The murderous brand, and gall this humble brow With the presumptuous casque — there is one hour For thee Valensa ! let me fly to thee, And drop from heavenly meditation down To thy scarce lowlier spirit, ere I sink Again to earth." The massive gates are passed, The grim portcullis dropp'd behind, and now Down the steep rock o'er which the castle frowns The youth pursues his dim but eager way Brushing with heedless foot th' elastic turf That spreads its verdure o'er the untill'd ground b 2 THE LEGEND OF In prodigal luxuriance ; now he stands Upon the borders of the lake ; his Squire Looses the little skiff, and from its stern The silent boy in listless attitude Looks o'er the sleeping waters, as the boat Shoots from the looming shadow of the rocks Over the scintillating waves, and gains The lake's unbroken beauty, like to youth Emerging from its sea of dreaming doubts Into the calm of intellectual light. His eye is lifted to those giant forms By nature in her early strife uprear'd, The tumuli of buried ages, vast Wide relics of the war of elements ; They press upon his soul, and bid it shrink In its unfruitful nothingness beneath Their undefined majesty. The sigh Deep-heaving from his breast, is half despair. Half welcome to the distant lamp that gleams Above the water ; toward that feeble ray He steers his bark with chill and hurried grasp ; 'Tis love's own beacon from the mole that joins To the mainland his Ladye's island home, — A shell upon the wave, holding its pearl. 3 ST. BERNARD. The boat is moor'd, and a low happy voice Greets its young tenant as he springs ashore To extacy Dawn mantles in the east And still that voice steals thro' his tranced sense, As the sweet nightingale fills all the air Which yet is sated not ; while he pours out The o'errlowing fullness of a soul that shrinks From sick'ning converse with the barren world. " My own, my bless'd Valensa ! thou alone Can'st raise this heart. Alas ! why does it sink At thoughts that bid the blood in other veins Throb with a bolder pulse ; why thus revolt At all the panoply of war, and spurn Blood-bought distinction ? I have scaled alone Heights that none else have dared, alone have stood 'Twixt earth and sky, to watch the o'ercharged clouds Mantling below my feet, and sending forth Their hollow signals for the tempest's charge, Till through the vaporous bulwarks shot the flash Arouzing air and earth to conflict ; where For every fragile and restricted life That ends its span in human rivalry, The giant of a hundred years is fell'd At each bright stroke beneath his fellow's shade, 6 THE LEGEND OF And every burst of heav'n's artillery Calls on the growth of centuries to die. I've roam'd over the glaciers, I have pierc'd The forest's depths whence superstition's voice Instinctive warns the stoutest warrior's steps, And never e'en suspected that I feared — But now — now that they call on me to head My arm'd retainers, and to face with them The paltry terrors of their human war, My spirit loathes the task. . . . Valensa ! say, Am I" . . . . he press'd his suddenly fiush'd brow And stoop'd as at her feet he half reclined, Till on her knees his quivering face was hid In irrepressible emotion .... No ! I am not, cannot be — a coward.". . . . " Thou ! A coward thou ! had the whole world proclaim'd The hideous lie, I had defied it. . . . Thou !. . . . Could my heart rest on thee if such thou wert ? Believe me love, thine only cowardice Is to distrust thine own surpassing worth, To deem the strength that raises thee, a crime Because 'tis not the virtue of the crowd. There is a courage that demands no clash ST. BERNARD. Of meeting arms, no trumpet's shrill appeal To call it into action, which exists — A soul within the soul — in native strength Scorning the bondage of the helm and shield. Such is thy courage. ... Go ! I send thee forth Armed by none other than thy Maker's hand, In all the beauty of an unstain'd heart, Where self, the coward's idol, hath no place. I twine no silken favour in thy casque, Nor bid thee bring me bloody trophies home, But when thou com'st with knightly grace to crave My guerdon, looking brave and beautiful Above thy fellows, it shall be for him Whose heart saves where his conquering hand would strike. " And my reward, Valensa ?" The pale light Play'd o'er the kneeling boy, the maiden's face Was buried in her hands — she answered not, But when, obedient to his sign, the boat Shot from the creek, Bernardo heard his name Breath'd in Valensa's last adieus, with words That told him all. 8 THE LEGEND OF The bark went on its way ; Yet watching its scarce visible career • Valensa lingers, and when distance shrouds The little vessel's track, still breathlessly She stands, to catch the dipping oars, while tears Heavy as rain-drops on the gossamer, Swell in her silken lashes, and her lips Repeat the words last whispered at her side, In idle echo. Years have seem'd to pass In this short interview, for 'tis the last Before Bernardo with his maiden sword Flush'd with the fame of knighthood, shall return To claim her as his bride. As yet her thoughts Had not o'erstepp'd the girl, and her pure mind Absorb'd in present bliss, or in her pray'rs Rising at once to heav'n, o'erleap'd the time That lay before her. Suddenly she seem'd To feel the woman stealing on ; her cheek Burn'd when she thought upon the fervid words Her love had forc'd from her, yet not with shame- How little had she told ! but the deep sense Of all that was awaiting her, arose Within her heart, filling its buoyant sphere With weightier but more precious feeling, like ST. BERNARD. The mists that float along the face of heav'n To temper yet enhance its loveliness. The horn, winded before the castle gate For Bernard's entry, floated o'er the lake In mellow cadence, and she dream'd herself That castle's mistress, and her lord returned From perilous adventure — but a cloud Hung o'er the picture — ivas his soul too high To feel the world's ignoble sympathies ? Too richly fraught with immortality To bend to such commands ? She dar'd not guess, But rais'd her eyes in hurried prayer on high. Daylight had burst from its eternal source, And while the Alpine peaks rejoicing blushed Though all below was pale, a single ray Fell midway down the opposing mountain side And brought out into luminous relief A sainted hermit's cell ; on the bright spot 4 The maiden's eye in mute enquiry fixed, Asked if that beam were fraught with deeper sense, Or but his daily meed of sacred fire Sent to its pure inhabitant ? the ray Linger'd like heavn's blessing, till the sun 10 THE LEGEND OF Rising above the snowy barriers, threw His slant rays on the rocky fastnesses. And Menthon's tower half shadowed, half revealed, A giant stretching forth his cumbrous limbs Seem'd, slowly waking ; on the drawbridge rude, And winding down the steep descent, appeared Banner and helmet glancing on the edge Of night's withdrawing curtain, like the stars Upon her own horizon, while the lake Still lulling in its silvery smoothness, bore The distant war cry to Valensa's ear. The sound broke through her trance, again she saw Her lover in the pride of knighthood, girt With train and trapping — pierc'd with fancy's eye The envious veil of distance, and pourtrayed His noble charger, and his nobler self Panting alike for fame — then looking round As though the very dawning would betray Her hesitating confidence, she made The zephyrs bearers of a timid kiss, Sighed one fond prayer, and sought her castle-home. ST. BERNARD. 1 1 CANTO 2, Gay, gorgeous time ! when courtly chivalry 5 Like the bright colours of the falling year That bid the scene with fruitless lustre glow, Trick'd out in its fantastic pageantry The follies and the vices of the world, There were some hearts that in their freshness bloom'd Unscath'd amid thy blandishments, or caught A mellowed lustre from thy transient glare. Of these Bernardo was ; in childhood's day He worship'd war, but only when its ranks Marshalled in unattainted splendour, passed Before him from the court ; when eager tongues By hundreds shouted forth the name he bore Exulting in its glory, when his sire Clad in his glittering armour rein'd the steed Bernardo panted to bestride, and hailed With all a father's pride, the vehemence 12 THE LEGEND OF That almost wept for fame. O then the helm Seem'd to him honour's crown. Alas ! too soon The vision was dispelled ; the leaguered fort, The hurried flight and hot pursuit, he saw And heeded not, these might be for the right — But there were direr mysteries to chill His youthful blood. Within the donjon's depths He had seen captives, beings who had learned To count each moment by its pang, to watch For their own sighs as the sole evidence That spoke to them of life ; had known them sink Unheeded to a grave not colder than Their dungeon, by a path too horrible To be betrayed ; had wept, had prayed for them In vain, and rushing from the dreadful scene Too oft repeated, fled to the wild glen, The pathless forest, and the Alpine height, To escape the pestilential breath of war, And shake off in unsullied solitude The loathsome sense of guilt and misery. There flowed his bitter tears, without a hand To dry them, or a human eye to drop Its meed of sympathy : nature became His friend, his deity ; he worshipped her ST. BERNARD. With his whole being, learned to trust himself — To argue with the world against its crimes, So out of harmony with heav'n, and shunn'd His martial home for the lone hermitage Where knowledge op'd for him her varied path, And piety her early handmaid, lent Sure guidance through its mazes, leading him Tow'rd its fair ending — immortality. Bernard was happy— coveted no change — But his proud sire, impatient lest his heir Should to renown be lost, by a soft lure Won back the ardent stripling ; then it was He first beheld Valensa, tasted first A joy by repetition made more sweet, That cloyed not on the appetite, but drew All hopes, all wishes 'neath its influence, And bathed them in its atmosphere of bliss Till life itself became a cloudless heav'n. But time grew ripe for action — war broke in With stirring voice upon his love. His sire Ere yet the maiden was his bride, decreed His first emprize to scale his native Alps With secret band against an ancient foe, 13 14 THE LEGEND OF Whose castle overhung Helvetia's vales, And sack the nest while yet the bird was flown In search of distant prey ; himself remained To awe a nearer enemy, but sent His veteran Squire, Uclolpho, to direct And guard Bernardo's first essay in arms. Proudly the father gazed upon his child As with a heart still throbbing, and a cheek Flush'd by remembrance of the last fond hour, The lover vaulted to his charger's back, Reining its fiery instinct with the grace Of Macedonia's prince ; devoutly breathed A blessing on his head, and as he gave Udolpho secret orders his harsh voice, Lost something of its sternness when he press'd Caution upon the wary squire, his eye Fix'd with an anxious meaning on his boy. Ye that know solitude but as she's prank'd In the trim garb of cultivated life, Where art encroaching upon nature's range Almost forbids her freedom ; ye that fear To seek her where she sits in shrouded state 'Mid Alpine forests of uncounted growth, ST. BERNARD. 15 Or thron'd upon the shattered pinnacle, Reigns over desolation — cast your eyes Once more into departed centuries, Ere man had turned the avalanche in its fall, Spann'd the sunk'fehasm, and pierc'd the mountain's . flank, Skirted the precipice, and with bold hand Presum'd to smooth her rugged brows, and ope His passage to her inmost heart : —Behold The youthful warrior toiling up the steep With unrelenting foot, and far before his band Exploring granite-girded rents that seem The passage to a cold eternity — Leaping the yawning chasm, and fearlessly From the o'erhanging fragment that replies In terrible vibration to his foot, Pointing with outstretched arm to where the path May safely be pursued. See him again Unfurl his banner on the glacier's brink, Where by each wave of the translucent waste Its colours are a thousand times thrown back, And hear him shout his war cry, thro' the pass To urge his train ; while he upon its heights O'erlooks the vallies bosomed in repose 16 THE LEGEND OF Where as the tramp of mailed horses crush The scanty herbage, echo sends the tale Through the basaltic chambers of the Alps In startling thunders. Higher yet they mount And touch the boundaries of eternal snow, Where nature, from a mother prodigal Of blessings, changes to a rigid queen, Whose sov'reignty raised far above the sphere Of human action and of human love, Courts not the full tongued gratitude of man, But in its vast and chilling dignity Compels him into silent awe. 'Tis night ! Slowly the numb'd and drooping warriors wind Into a snow clad hollow, where a lake Lies cradled 'mid the mountains towering round Like giants set to guard its slumbers ; soon 7 The watchfires throw their sparkles o'er its breast, The clang of falling arms along its shores Resounds, and the diminished band tell o'er Their comrades, lost before the fame they sought Had shone on them, their undistinguish'd grave The snow wreath, and their noisy requiem ST. BERNARD. J 7 The roar of tumbling torrents. . . . The young chief Is still alone among the impending rocks O'erlooking the blank scene — not blank to him ! For memory, at sight of that still lake, O'ermastering the -fcn ward stream of thought, Hath floated him to other shores ; he leans Upon his bloodless sword, with every sense Entangled in the web of fancy, till Each rugged line before him melts away In one entrancing whole — Valensa ! Hark ! What cry was that ? replied to by a shout As if the mountains had been voiced — a glare From a yet loftier peak, is downward thrown Extinguishing the paler watchfires' ray And lighting up with painful vividness The armour of the men. Are the fiends there Exulting o'er the world, or have the caves Yielded their monsters to dispute the pass ? Bernard beholds his troop with wondering gaze Look round, while each resumes with startled haste The breastplate and the shield, as prompt to oppose Wild ambuscade or unknown enemy. Upward he presses, his experienced eye Takes in at once the perils of the ascent, 18 THE LEGEND OF And with athletic energy he shuns Destruction, still advancing till his foot Is placed in safety on a jutting crag, That hangs but one bold spring above the scene. Rear'd at the foot of everlasting snows That gleam'd with chilling and sarcastic smile On its unholy frame, bright 'mid the glow Of sacrificial fire, a temple stood 8 Within whose columns rose the idol form Of the fall'n thunderer, not as once he tower'd On Rome's imperial hill, when heav'n-taught art, Lent him her power to subjugate the sOul, That knew not yet its immortality, But reigning in a dull degraded shape O'er timid ignorance. Upon the steps Of the rude shrine, red in the lurid light, Knelt hideous age, unlovely infancy, And life in its full hardihood and prime, Crook'd into strong deformity — the chief 9 Looks down with a perplex'd but melting eye On faces dulled by hopeless ignorance, Or scathed by passion in its licence, till Their human semblance was half lost : he hears ST. BERNARD. 19 The rout 'mid joyless clamour offering up Fearful petitions, and his spirit quails Beneath the degradation of his kind. " Thus then," he cried, " thus do they send me forth ^ To dog their victims like the blood-hound ; thus To dye my hand in human gore, and slake Their most unchristian vengeance, while there live Such scenes as these to rouze my better soul To action, and to quench the earth-born flame Of passion, with the tears of charity O thou unfathomable mystery ! Thou life that like the atmosphere doth fill Unlimited creation ! wherefore giv'n To be thus trifled with by him who bears His maker's image ?. . . . Wake my sleeping soul ! Thou'rt in as foul a bondage as yon slaves, That dar'st to take the life thou canst not give, Fearing to set thyself at liberty." The youth is rapt, he hears not the loud tramp Of steel-clad warrior's foot, but suddenly He sees the flashes of the blazing pile Reflected by a shield, and the swart form c _' 20 THE LEGEND OF Of old Udolpho, issuing from the pass That winds between the crags down to the lalce, With uprais'd arm before his eager band. 'Twas not the first time the stern veteran Had scaled those gloomy regions, or beheld The heathen worship ; his remorseless creed, Imbibed from warlike zealots who had taught 10 No mercy to unblest idolatry, Was compass'd in a dreadful rule, " the sword." Ere their young leader could by word or sign Denote his presence, forward rushed his men, While from their path the heathen horde fell back In mute amazement, till Udolpho seized The kneeling priest upon the altar steps And dashed him to its foot. — Like Raphael arm'd For heav'nly retribution — his cheek pale With stern excitement — Bernard from the crag; Sprung on the soldier, and with lightning stroke Felled him to earth ; " Minion," he cried " is't thus, Thou dar'st assume thy leader's place, and war With undefended peace ? Back warriors, back— We come to oppose the strong, not crush the weak. ST. BERNARD. 21 Uclolpho staggered to his feet. " My Lord, Do ye not note the pagan temple, mark The idol, and the heathen worshipping?" " Aye soldier, butr^tis not the sword must root This curse from out the land, — away ! away ! I cannot feel with thee ! there is a tie Drawing me to the victims of thy hate Stronger than all thy zeal." " My Lord, your sire" — " Use not his name to sanction cruel deeds ! 'Tis mine, here to command — thine to obey — Begone I say ! draw off thy men, and wait Till morning light thee, vulture as thou art To fitting prey — these shall not glut thy rage." The impetuous youth stands on the temple steps While his still murm'ring band file thro' the pass, Gazing upon the crouching multitude, Who with wild gestures pray him to give life As he hath sav'd it, and amid this mass Of living, feeling misery, hedged in By trackless snows, he looks a spirit sent To shed heaven's mercy, where the world shed none. 22 THE LEGEND OF He speaks not, but his quivering lip, his eye Raised in intense devotion, his strong arms Writhing in tightened fold upon his breast, Betray some contest ; but no other sign — No word reveals its cause ; unheeding all The wondering homage of the cowering herd, He contemplates the idol — then as rouzed To full remembrance, he with sudden act Invoking heaven above the kneeling throng Breaks through them, and regains his wondering camp. ST. BERNARD. 23 CANTO 3. But where is she in this momentous hour, Whose fate hangs on its issue ? She whose heart Fix'd upon one bold stake, hath risk'd its all And waits a rich return ; alas ! she hath prov'd A spendthrift in her treasury of hope, And now that busy faces round her beam In earnest of her coming joy, she sits In pensive reverie, without a smile ■ To pay back in return. Never before Hath Bernard 11 left her; with the hour of prime He was beneath her window ; when at noon Her palfrey, or her boat bore her through air In all the happy consciousness of life, He was her guide — her guard — and when at eve The twilight with its undefined power Softened her soul, and rais'd it to the realm 24 THE LEGEND OF Of dreams, he was her brightest vision ; now She is alone. Alone ! how much that word Pourtrays, when echoing in fancy's ear Like the last whisper of the evening wind, Or latest moan of the retreating storm, As touching on the sweet or jarring chords Of memory ! — who would not be alone When hopes and wishes, creeping silently And known but to itself about the heart, To shed a sacred charm o'er languid life, At once are blasted ! who would be alone When the soul, fainting 'neath its load of bliss Must share the burthen with a kindred soul ? Joy craves companions — sorrow is its own. Days come and pass ; Valensa hath not seen Bernardo — but his band have reach'd their home, Her watchful eye hath marked them on the shore ; The promised signal too hath been displayed And she hath heard brave tidings of her knight. The fort is won, the garrison dispersed, The tarnished spot on Menthon's shield wash'd out In the red current of her foemen's blood. ST. BERNARD. Each bark that scuds across the lake, gives out Some tale of the young warrior's gallantry ; And yet he comes not ! Wherefore this delay ? A thousand fears assail her, she essays Vainly to frame Reuses for this cold, This new neglect; the day is drawing near That he so long hath sighed for, yet his boat Rolls in its little bay. Love takes the alarm And in the feverish torture of suspense Valensa wanders o'er the rugged paths So oft pursued in brighter hours, and scales With mountain maiden's graceful hardihood The steep ascent, to gain a larger view And watch her lover's coming o'er the lake, Till at the hermit's solitary cell She stops to beg a blessing on her way. With trembling hand, and heart that quicker throbs After her recent toil, she lifts the latch. . . . The daylight falls upon a kneeling form Cased in the warrior's garb, saving a head That droops unhelmeted before the Cross In silent adoration. It is he ! It is Bernardo ! — Yet Valensa paused 25 26 THE LEGEND OF Pass'd not the threshold, but gazed breathlessly — ■ She would not break upon his hour of prayer Though joy was wild for utterance — till the air Lifting the curls upon his brow, the youth Rais'd his sunk head, and met those well known eyes. " Thou here Valensa ! do I see thee here Ere I have school' d my heart to look on thee With one throb less !" " Bernard ! and is it thus We meet ?" She bounded to his arms — " Thou'rt not, Thou art not false ?" " Let not suspicion cloud The brightness of thy mind, I am still true — True as the sun above us." " Thanks for that Then thou art still mine own ?" " He looked on her Till sight wan'd in its own intensity — " Thou hast not seen a fairer face than mine Among yon frowning mountains ?" ST. BERNARD. 27 " I have seen Sights to have turned a ruddier cheek than thine To palest alabaster, to have made Hearts grown as hard as their own breastplates, melt ; — * .Let me not tell them thee, lest I become Thy murderer by heart-destroying words — And yet ! the cloud of sorrow hangs o'er thee And I must ope its heavy torrent." "Nay I'll not believe thou hast betrayed thy trust?" " As soon had I betrayed my soul ! O no, The christian knight against his christian foe Hath fought and conquered — witness this red sword, My polished plaything till they called me up To draw it on my brother. Nay, shrink not, 'Tis but the blood of hirelings who had ta'en My life, had I not struck the surer blow ; It hath hewn down nor age, nor innocence, The baron's wife and little ones" — " Are safe — Twas like thyself." 28 THE LEGEND OF a Oh praise not thou my deeds, I've that to tell will make thy gentle heart Deny itself, and mock at mercy High in yon snowy pinnacles that look The emblems of eternal purity, I found a heathen temple" — " And thou razed The impious fabric to the ground ?" " Not so,— There is no law within the code of heav'n That says, destroy, but its whole spirit breathes Through the world's living beauty, the command To save ; I felt it in that pregnant hour When superstition's victims at my feet Grovell'd in loathsome worship, and the sense — The thrilling sense of power to save, o'ercame For a brief space all thoughts of sacrifice And drove me to the sudden deed ; I swore To plant the Cross upon that heathen mound, And draw with gentle hand the blinded souls Beneath its holy shadow, though my heart Shed every hoarded treasure at its foot, And burst in yielding them. Guess all the rest — ST. BERNARD. 29 On me it fell with swift and sick'ning blight When calm had come again, and in the depths Of my devoted soul, whispered me false ! — And yet Valensa, I must hear thee speak That word in helpless agony, for now Though every echo of the Alps should throw My falsehood back to thy proclaiming lips, I may not, dare not call thee mine." She spoke No word, but loos'ning the fond clasp That joy had tighten'd round his arm, she press'd Her hands before her eyes, as to shut out Conviction ; sinking on the rock-hewn seat As crush'd at once, — then sudden, like the ship That, trembling from the shock of winds, regains Its placid way after the fitful blast, She rose above the tempest of her soul In forced serenity. " Obey thy vow" Hoarsely she said, " Obey thy sacred vow, And think no more on me." " Oh speak not thus ! Martyrs have suffered in the holy cause, But years of lengthen'd torture had been short To these few hours of agony." 30 THE LEGEND OF " I know, — I know thy suffering Bernard — but 'tis past, On in thy heav'n taught path — leave sorrow here. Think not a woman's weakness prompts my words ; I felt thou wer't too noble for the world, And rather than my heart should bind thee down To earth, I'd lay it at thy feet — I can, I will be happy in thy greatness." "Ah! Promise me that ! promise thou wilt not soil My sacrifice by sinking 'neath the blow — They'll tell thee I am perjured." " They dare not, They shall not breathe a whisper 'gainst thy fame, I'll be its shield." " Oh exquisitely fair ! Must I thus tear the lily from its stem And ask it to live on ? Alas ! 'tis vain." '■ Nay dearest ! look not on this face again, Or I will mar its beauty ere thou turn To be again unstrung." " 'Tis not thy face Incomparable maid ! thy soul it is — Thy soul, that with its brightness dazzling me ST. BERNARD. 31 Lures me to follow it." " Then let its light Point out thy path to heav'n ! Bernard I kneel To crave thy blessing as heav'n's minister, Henceforth I see thee in no other guise.". . . . He stretch'd his arms as if to circle her, Then for a brief and harrowing moment, gazed Into her face, imbibed its purity, Bent over her in scarce heard orison, Touch'd her pale forehead with his lips — and fled. Alas ! what noble outcasts are the great From the world's aggregate of happiness ! They who from an exalted region, shine Above mankind as guiding beacons, lit By an eternal hand. Not through a mild And ever radiant atmosphere do such Climb the high heav'n of their supremacy ; But through the storms of passions too intense To be at once commanded, through the mists Of prejudice — the clouds of drear neglect, Athwart whose mass the meteor-flash of hope Streams often with delusive blandishment, — While as they rise, the little world that bask'd 32 THE LEGEND OF In the uncourted beauty of their dawn Wanes in the widening prospect, and they blaze Alone in their meridian plenitude Upon a cold and thankless universe, As the bright luminary of the north Sheds o'er tumultuous and unheeding seas Its steady splendour. But their triumph comes — A triumph nobly worthy of their toil, When 'neath commanding mastery, the mind Springing from out the tangled coil of life Grows in unlimited expansion, grasps All nature in its keen intelligence, Through the world's tortuous philosophy Seizes upon the simple creed of truth And sinking here in its hereafter, leans With holy fealty upon the hope Of an immortal payment. On this calm This stormless sphere hath Bernard almost touched — But he hath yet one victory o'er himself To atchieve. The cherish'd ties of early youth Are broken through — the world and its report, The claims of kindred, and that dearer bond The flowery chain that fasten 'd him to life — ST. BERNARD. 33 He stands amid their ruins, on the verge Of earthly sacrifice, panting to break From joys that like the waves of Tantalus Rise to his lip, and yet forbid its touch. He is alone within his chamber — look Upon that face ! a sudden change is there Since first we viewed it, wrought in fleeting weeks That compass'd in their fierce and anguish'd span The mental struggles of a life ; time's seal Hath stamp'd with hasty impress on that brow The stern serenity of years ; the glow Of florid health is gone, like early bloom From the rich fruit when morning skies prove * rough, And the firm buoyancy of youthful strength ^ Hath sharpened to rigidity. He sits In high-wrought resolution, the cold damps Rising upon his brow, and his pale lips Trembling with the strong effort to restrain Emotions, that if once uncurbed, had set Subjection at defiance, and unthron'd Reason herself; the glimmer of the lamp Falls on his toys of boyhood, that look out 34 THE LEGEND OF Like friends upon his misery, and chide The flight they cannot stay — the rustic bow The hunting spear and jesses for the hawk, The favorite book are there, while his strain'd ear, Acutely quicken'd in its sense, drinks in Each sound of preparation for the morn That should nave made him blest, the frequent tramp Of coming guests, the menial's busy steps And careless laugh, the minstrel's mellow claim For entrance. Oh 'twas like the passing knell Of his departing joys ! His full heart swells, But breaks not — silently he sits Till ev'ry sound in Menthon's towers is hush'd Save his own quiv'ring breath — then first he hears The storm without. Midnight at last is come ! Few hours before the dawn that should have strewn Its roses in Valensa's bridal path ! But dunnest curtains shadow the sad heav'n Save where the lightning's fiery arrow flies Along its murky scope, to ope a vent For the encased thunder, peal on peal Bursting in triumph from its prisonment, While the mad echoes from the mountains, shout ST. BERNARD. 35 Their welcome at its freedom ; the chaf'd lake Boils in the general phrensy, and the boats Moor'd for the morrow's pageant, break away Tossing amid the turbid waters ; yet — His hour is come, and brooks no tarrying, •Though nature fling her terrors in his path ; For flight would be impossible if known. Calm as the stormy elements are rough Bernard unclasps with cold but steady hand, His lonely turret window, and looks down The precipice below — the cords are slung — One moment's pause — that moment is an age Of concentrated pain — he falters not, But as the torrent's headlong rush is heard With startling clearness in the thunder's pause, He seems to own its angry challenge, leaps Upon the parapet, and boldly pois'd In the red glare that pierces the abyss But half its depth, sinks resolutely down, Steering his dizzy track with hand and foot Through crags that threaten his destruction ; safe He lights upon the mountain's gloomy edge And looks up breathlessly a mute farewell ! 36 THE LEGEND OF No time for pause, no time for thought — he strives Against the hurricane's o'ermastering force And thanks the lurid lightning as it gleams Upon the hidden chasm ; he presses on Rouzed by the maddened elements, till doubt Gives place to proud excitement, and he scorns To call it danger ; with undaunted zeal, He labours through the hours of darkness, till Uprais'd o'er earth's impending canopy Into the heav'n's untarnish'd light, he views The baffled tempest like a guilty thing Fleeing before day's sun-lit majesty. Exhausted on the scanty turf he lies And drinks in from the fountain of his soul The balm of conscious rectitude ; hope springs Into new life, and as the stately scene Of nature rising at her maker's call Rouzes his fainting energy, he kneels, The single intercessor for his kind Amid her kindling splendors, and implores The power to elevate degraded man Above the varied forms that round him live In the mute homage of obedience, and ST. BERNARD. 37 To draw from these his soulless monitors, The lesson of his own supremacy. Through fleeting years, was Bernard's fate unknown Save but to one— and now the veil of time Hath hidden the mysterious agency By which he hunted superstition down From her unholy housing. Pride is loud And glaring in its office ; piety Though as diffusive as the summer's breath Is as invisible. Ages have past And Menthon's towers in unretriev'd decay Mock at their ancient splendor ; but where still The sullen lake sleeps in its cheerless bed Amid the unchanging Alps, there dwell the heirs Of Bernard's holy fame ; yet husbanding , His seed of mercy, and at winter's feet Reaping a harvest of perpetual love; While purged from guilt the mountains rear their heads In crownless majesty, acknowledging The single handed toil that made them pure, And chronicle in deathless gratitude The sainted name of their deliverer. NOTES. 1 . — The materials for the present story are drawn from Mr. Bakewell's interesting " Travels in the Tarentaise," and as they contain a much more succinct account of the scene of St. Ber- nard's birth and early life, than any other work, the few notes that have been considered necessary will be extracted from the same source. Chateau Menthon, one of the earliest Baronial Castles now in existence, and where St. Bernard was born in the year 924, is situated on the shores of Lake Annecy in Savoy, but a short distance from Geneva. It is an irregular building with the massive gates and portcullis of the Norman school, and con- taining furniture which is said to be coeval with its foundation, evidently a mistake, though it is very ancient. The Castle is situated on an eminence commanding a view of both ends of the lake, and surrounded on all sides by bold and picturesque moun- tain scenery. It is usually reached by boats, and the steep ascent to it, is now clothed with vineyards, while the shores of the little lake stretching away from its foot are studded with the ruins of buildings of its own class, bosomed in fine forest trees, or nearer to the water's edge, with comfortable modern farm-houses peeping from among chesnut and walnut trees, the peculiar growth of the district. 2. — St. Bernard of Menthon, the hero of the tale, and so called to distinguish him from the Saint of the same name who flourished NOTES. 39 at a much later date, is one of no great nominal importance in the Catholic calendar, however useful he may have been to the cause of religion, The authentic records of his life are necessarily- very scanty, giving us a mere outline of his history. St. Bernard was heir to the large feudal possessions of the family of Menthon, and an onty* child. He appears in his youth to have cherished a desire to enter the priesthood, which his father endeavoured to counteract by an early marriage with a young lady of Chateau Duing. The eve of the day on which this union was to take place arrived, before Bernard, fixed in his resolution for a holy life, had the courage to break from the chain, and he then only effected his escape by letting himself down from a window in the Castle, still shewn, and whence the miracle to which tradition attributes his safe descent, seems scarcely less than sufficient to skreen him from destruction in the perilous exploit. He fled over the mountains to Aoste, was ordained, and became afterwards Archdeacon of the Cathedral there. " Possessing the zeal of an Apostle," says Mr. Bakewell, "he could not rest satisfied with the easy duties of his office, but burned with impatience to destroy the worship of the heathen deities, for they were still adored in some of the sequestered vallies of the Grecian »nd Pennine Alps. He employed himself for forty-two years in preaching to the inhabitants of these regions, and succeeded in overturning the statue of Jupiter on Mont Jou (Mons Jovis) now the Great St. Bernard. At that time also there was a column (Colonna Jou) dedicated to Jupiter, near the summit of that part of the Grecian Alps, at present called the Little St. Bernard. During his long residence in these savage parts, he was deeply affected by the numerous melancholy catastrophes he witnessed of travellers being lost and buried in the snow, and after he had destroyed the remains of heathen superstition he laid the foun- 40 NOTES. dation of the two Hospices, which still bear his name on the Great and Little St. Bernard, to serve as resting places for travellers who crossed the higher Alps into Italy." St. Bernard died in 1009, aged 85. Tradition adds, that his parents found him after twenty-six years of search, in the Hospice on the Great St. Bernard. A picture of the Saint is still preserved in the Castle, which represents him as very handsome, and a corres- ponding portrait of his beloved has beauty enough to exculpate the poet from stretching the bounds of probability too far, in submitting the heir of Menthon for a time to her fascina- tions. There are sufficiently numerous examples of heroic devotion to the service of Christianity among the early supporters of the Church, but it is hardly to be supposed that those holy men were emancipated from human feelings and sympathies, in the early stages of their career ; their minds were of that class, which advancing before their age, freed themselves from the shackles of station and custom in their choice of life, and had at the same time the self denial, to bend, in the prosecution of their high objects, to those ordinances which cut them off from the enjoyment even of the innocent pleasures of life. 3. — Chateau Duing, anciently called Chateau Vieux, having changed its name to a village near it, is built upon an island or promontory on Lake Annecy, which advances so far, as nearly to divide the sheet of water into two equal portions ; the whole extent of the lake being about ten English miles in length, and from one to two in breadth. The peculiar features of the lake are the numerous vallies that slope down towards it, enclosing in their intricate haunts, some of the most interesting scenery of this most picturesque portion of Europe, and still farther rendered attractive by the traditions and ancient reminiscences that cling to their neighbourhood. Chateau Duing, now the abode of modern hos- NOTES. 41 pitality, is described by Mr. Bakewell as a long plain building, not unlike an English worsted or cotton factory, but having at one end a round tower of great antiquity. It is placed on an eminence, cut into cultivated and ornamental terraces, the island on which it stan*fe being connected with the main land by a narrow causeway, where there was formerly also a drawbridge. " There are historic traces of the castle as far back as the ninth century," says Mr. Bakewell. It defended the passage from the upper to the lower part of the lake, on the western side, in conjunction with another castle or fort, situated on an eminence, on the opposite side of the road. This is now nearly demolished, except an hexagonal tower in the same style of architecture as Coningsberg Castle, in Yorkshire." 4. — On the banks of the lake in the neighbourhood of Chateau Duing, stand the ruins of a large Benedictine Priory, and near them, those of a chapel and hermitage, appertaining to it. Its site has been slightly altered to suit the purposes of the story, but its actual existence is correct. The winding road cut in the rock, to the abode of the anchorite is even now very beautiful. 5. — The age of chivalry, in the stricter application of the term, may be said to have commenced only with the Crusades, but its spirit was abroad much earlier, and was in fact gradually diffused throughout Europe, after the time of Charlemagne. Sir Walter Scott, in his " Essay on Chivalry," says, " it began to dawn in the end of the tenth and beginning of the eleventh century," so that, according to a very competent authority, the author has only indulged a license in antedating a few years at the worst. G. — There are no data on which to found this portion of the poem, but the assumption of St. Bernard's having borne arms, is not ill grounded, fur as he was probably educated like all the youth of his time, in the exercises and pursuits fitted to the heir 42 NOTES. of a noble family, it is scarcely possible to suppose he would have been on the eve of marriage, before he had mixed in those enterprizes in which all the efforts of the age were absorbed. The remonstrances held with the Pope by St. Bernard on the license of the priesthood of his time shew him to have been no bigot, nor had he entered any religious order more strictly than to become a Canon of the Cistercians. His first impulse after his escape was to overcome the heathenism existing among the mountains, so that he must, have had actual experience of this fact, nor would a mind of such purity of principle, have been led to such determination without having first gone through the slow process of conviction. 7. — The name of the Great St. Bernard appertains strictly to a pass among the mountains, not to the mountain itself. The principal features of the site of the Hospice are beautifully dis- played, in an engraving in Beattie's Switzerland, but the lake is so frequently covered with snow, that in one instance a traveller spent some days at the monastery without being aware of its existence. One of the amusements of the inmates is to descend the slope of the rocks to the lake in sledges, which slide easily and with great velocity along the ice, the noble dogs partaking the sport. 8. — The site of the temple is still pointed out by the Monks, who have formed a collection of coins, bronzes, and votive tablets, found among its ruins. For a more detailed account of the Hospice and temple, with their early history, we refer such of our readers as do not already know the work, to " Brockedon's Excursions in the Alps." 9. — The Alpine villages in this range present even now pictures of misery and barbarism that are truly revolting. Mr. Bakewell says " the persons round our char at Villard Goitrou presented — NOTES. 43 the most melancholy picture of the physical degradation of our species I had ever beheld, united with an extreme degree of poverty and destitution equalled only by that of the poorest wretches in Ireland, with goitres so large as to bear a considerable proportion to their dwarfish bodies, with heads, featm-es, and forms scarcely human, many of them unable to speak, but ex- pressing their wants by grating noises and uncouth signs ; they exhibited all the horrors of deformity combined with idiocy and extreme wretchedness." " The depravities of heathen rites nine centuries ago, must have accumulated the horrors of this terrible picture. 10. — Again says the same intelligent writer, "At the period in which St. Bernard lived, the only Christians who penetrated into the retired vallies of the Alps, came in troops clad in steel to cut the throats of other Christians, headed by Barons or armed Bishops, who met them for the same kind purpose, and both parties plundered, ravished, or murdered the poor pagans who lay in their route. Such practices were not well suited to recommend the religion of the cross : debased as it then was, it seemed to possess but little advantage over heathenism. But St. Bernard was a Christian of a very different kind. He considered his religion as something better than " a cunningly devised fable," and that it was intended for nobler purposes than to fill the coffers of the clergy. He was perhaps the first true Christian the Pagans of the Alps had ever seen. His enthusiasm and perseverance, tempered with benevolence and good sense, produced the effects of the fabled lyre of Orpheus, in humanizing the savages of the desert." 1 1 . — Some readers may be inclined to demur to the use of two methods of writing the same name, and the Author has but a flimsy defence to bring forward. It must principally rest on the 44 NOTES. superior euphony of the Italian pronunciation, the variety it gives to the verse, and the licence admissible in matters of such slight importance. It is however more than probable that such a change actually took place, as Saints were not often canonized by the precise name they bore before entering upon their sacred calling. BACON, KINNEBHOOK, AND BACON, PRINTERS, NOBTVICH. UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. Form L9-32m-8,'57(,C8680s4)444 THR l.TOttAJtV