Hlad satisfied his heart, and given it peace, One night upon the shore his chapel-bell ST GUALBERTO. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. 1799. THE work is done, the fabric is complete; Must toil for many a league and many an hour. Elate the Abbot sees the pile and knows, Stateliest of convents now, his new Moscera rose. Long were the tale that told Moscera's pride, Its columns' cluster'd strength and lofty state, How many a saint bedeck'd its sculptured side, What intersecting arches graced its gate; Its towers how high, its massy walls how strong, These fairly to describe were sure a tedious song. Yet while the fane rose slowly from the ground, But little store of charity, I ween, The passing pilgrim at Moscera found; And often there the mendicant was seen Hopeless to turn him from the convent-door, For this so costly work still kept the brethren poor. Now all is perfect, and from side So chanced it that Gualberto pass'd that way, And, whilst o'er all its bulk his eye proceeds, Him, musing as he stood, Rodulfo saw, And forth he came to greet the holy guest; For he was known as one who held the law Of Benedict, and each severe behest So duly kept with such religious care, That Heaven had oft vouchsafed its wonders to his prayer. «Good brother, welcome!» thus Rodulfo cries, <<< In sooth it glads me to behold you here; It is Gualberto! and mine aged eyes Did not deceive me: yet full many a year Hath slipt away, since last you bade farewell To me your host and my uncomfortable cell. This story is related in the English Martyrology, 1608. <<'T was but a sorry welcome then you found, It glads me more to bid you welcome here, So spake the cheerful Abbot, but no smile Of answering joy relaxed Gualberto's brow; He raised his hand and pointed to the pile, « Moscera better pleased me then than now! A palace this, befitting kingly pride! Will holiness, my friend, in palace pomp abide1» «Aye,» cries Rodulfo, « 't is a stately place! And pomp becomes the house of worship well. Nay, scowl not round with so severe a face! When earthly kings in seats of grandeur dwell, Where art exhausted decks the sumptuous hall, Can poor and sordid huts beseem the Lord of all?” <«< And ye have rear'd these stately towers on high Το serve your God!» the monk severe replied. « It rose from zeal and earnest piety, And prompted by no worldly thoughts beside? «Rodulfo! while this haughty building rose, Clothed ye the naked? did ye feed the poor? He who with alms most succours the distrest, Proud Abbot! know, he serves his heavenly Father best. « Did they in sumptuous palaces go dwell Who first abandon'd all to serve the Lord? Their place of worship was the desert cell, Wild fruits and berries spread their frugal board, And if a brook, like this, ran murmuring by, They blest their gracious God, and 'thought it luxury.'s Then anger darken'd in Rodulfo's face; Enough of preaching,» sharply he replied, « Thou art grown envious: 't is a common case, Humility is made the cloak of pride. Proud of our home's magnificence are we, But thou art far more proud in rags and beggary.» With that Gualberto cried in fervent tone, «O, Father, hear me! if this splendid pile Was for thine honour rear'd, and thine alone, Bless it, O Father, with thy fostering smile! Still may it stand, and never evil know, Long as beside its walls the eternal stream shall flow. He said, and lo, the brook no longer flows! It falls, the mountain bulk, with thundering sound! Prone lie its columns now, its high arch'd walls, Earth shakes beneath the onward-rolling tide, Now do I bless the man who undertook These monks and martyrs to biographize; And love to ponder o'er his ponderous book, The mingle-mangle mass of truth and lies, Where Angels now, now Beelzebubs appear, That from its base swept down the unholy house of And blind and honest zeal, and holy faith sincere. pride. Were old Gualberto's reasons built on truth, He only play'd his pranks in foreign ground; Then Malmesbury's arch had never met my sight, Nor Battle's vast and venerable pile; I had not traversed then with such delight The hallowed ruins of our Alfred's isle, Where many a pilgrim's curse is well bestow'd On those who rob its walls to mend the turnpike-road. Wells would have fallen, dear George, our country's pride; And Canning's stately church been rear'd in vain, Nor had the traveller Ely's tower descried, Which when thou seest far o'er the feny plain, Dear George, I counsel thee to turn that way, Its ancient beauties sure will well reward delay. And we should never then have heard, I think, At evening hour, great Tom's tremendous knell. The fountain streams that now in Christ-church stink, Had niagara'd o'er the quadrangle ; But, as it was beauty that deserved the flood, I ween, dear George, thy own old Pompey might have stood. Then had not Westminster, the house of God, Had swept down Greenwich, England's noblest boast; George, dost thou deem the legendary deeds Of Romish saints a useless medley store Of lies, that he flings time away who reads? And wouldst thou rather bid me puzzle o'er Matter and Mind and all the eternal round, All is not very truth, and yet 't were hard The fabling Priests for fabling to abuse; What if a monk, from better theme debarr'd, Some pious subject for a tale should chuse, How some good man the flesh and fiend o'ercame, His taste methinks, and not his conscience, were to blame. In after years, what he, good Christian, wrote, Went travelling on, its origin forgot, Till at the length it past for gospel-truth. A fair account! and shouldst thou like the plea, Thank thou thy valued friend, dear George, who taught it me. All is not false which seems at first a lie. Fernan Antolinez, a Spanish knight, Knelt at the mass, when lo! the troops hard by Before the expected hour began the fight. Though courage, duty, honour, summon'd there, He chose to forfeit all; not leave the unfinish'd prayer. But while devoutly thus the unarm'd knight Waits till the holy service should be o'er, Even then the foremost in the furious fight Was he beheld to bathe his sword in gore, First in the van his plumes were seen to play, And Spain to him decreed the glory of the day. The truth is told, and all at once exclaim, His guardian angel Heaven had deign'd to send; And thus the tale is handed down to fame. Now if our good Sir Fernan had a friend Who in the hour of danger served him well, Dear George, the tale is true, and yet no miracle. I am not one who scan with scornful eyes The dreams which make the enthusiast's best de light; Nor thou the legendary lore despise If of Gualberto yet again I write, 1 Aconteció en aquella batalla una cosa digna de memoria.Fernan Antolinez, hombre noble y muy devoto, oia missa al tiempo que se dió señal de acometer, costumbre ordinaria suya antes de la Plunged headlong down the dark and fathomless pro- pelea; por no dexarla començada, se quedó en el templo quando se found? Era amigo de pobreza, en tanto grado, que sentia mucho, que los Monasterios se edificassen sumptuosamente; y assi visitando el de Moscera y viendo un edificio grande, y elegante, buelto à Rodalpho, que era alli Abad, con el rostro ayrado le dixo: Con lo que has gastado, siguiendo tu parecer, en este magnifico edificio, has quitado el sustento a muchos pobres. Puso los ojos en un pequeño arroyo, que corria alli cerca, y dixo, Dios Omnipotente, que sueles hacer grandes cosas de pequeñas criaturas, yo te ruego, que vea por medio de este pequeño arroyo venganza de este gran edificio. Dixo esto, y fuese de alli como abominando el lugar; y siendo oido, el arroyuelo comenzó a crecer, y fue de suerte, que recogiendo un monte de agua, y tomando de atràs la corriente, vino con tan grande impetu, que llevando piedras y arboles consigo, derribo el edificio.Flos Sanctorum, por El Maestro Alonso de Villegas. tocó á la arma. Esta piedad quan agradable fuesse à Dios, se entendió por un milagro. Estávase primero en la Iglesia, despues escondido en su casa, temia no le afrentassen como à cobarde. En tanto, otro á él semejante, es á saber, su Angel bueno, pelea entre los primeros tan valientemente, que la vitoria de aquel dia se atri buyó en gran parte al valor de el dicho Antolinez. Confirmaron e milagro las señales de los golpes, y las manchas de la sangre que se' hallaron frescas en sus armas y cavallo. Assi publicado el caso, y sabido lo que passava, quedó mas conocida la inocencia y esfuerço de Autolinez.-Mariana. Perhaps this miracle, and its obvious interpretation, may have suggested to Florian the circumstance by which his Gonsalvo is prevented from combating and killing the brother of his mistress. Florian was fond of Spanish literature, * Cerca de Santistevan de Gormaz, a la ribera del rio Duero.A. D. 982. How first impell'd he sought the convent cell; A simple tale it is, but one that pleased me well. Fortune had smiled upon Gualberto's birth, Well for his valour known, and known for haughtiness. It chanced that one in kindred near allied Much by his sorrow moved and more by pride, Long did they wait; at length the tidings came << Go,» cried the father, « meet him in the wood!» When now the youth was at the forest shade And he, already wearied with his way, Save when a falling leaf came fluttering by, Is there who has not felt the deep delight, And young Gualberto was not hard of heart. The Catholic who hears that vesper-bell, Howe'er employed, must send a prayer to Heaven. For with the calm and sober thoughts of even prayer. Gualberto had been duly taught to hold Each pious duty with religious care, And, for the young man's feelings were not cold, And wherefore was it that he had not pray'd? And thoughts of near revenge alone possess'd his mind. And man must man forgive, if he would be forgiven. Slow sunk the glorious sun, a roseate light Spread o'er the forest from his lingering rays; The glowing clouds upon Gualberto's sight Soften'd in shade,-he could not chuse but gaze; Troubled at heart, almost he felt a hope, That yet some chance his victim might delay, So as he mused adown the neighbouring slope He saw a lonely traveller on his way; And now he knows the man so much abhorr'd,Save where the west retain'd the last green light of even. His holier thoughts are gone, he bares the murderous And now a placid greyness clad the heaven, Cool breathed the grateful air, and fresher now ↑ Llamòse el padre Gualberto, y era señor de Valdespesa, que està entre Sena, y Florencia: seguia la milicia; y como le matassen un su deudo cercano injustamente, indignados, assi el hijo, que era ya hombre, como el padre, con mucho cuydado buscavan ocasion, como vengar aquella muerte. Sucedió, que veniendo à Florencia el bijo, con un criado suyo, hombre valiente, y los dos bien armados, à cavallo, vió à su enemigo, y en lugar que era impossible irseles: lo qual considerado por el contrario, y que tenia cierta su muerte, descendió de un cavallo, en que venia, y puesto de rodillas le pidió, juntas las manos, por Jesu-Christo crucificado, le perdonasse la vida. Enternecióse Juan Gualberto, oyendo el nombre de Jesu Christo crucificado; y dixole, que por amor de aquel Señor, que rogó en la Cruz por los que le pusieron en ella, él le perdonava. Pidióle, que se levautasse, y perdiesse el temer, que ya no por enemigo, sino por amigo le queria, y que de Dios, por quien hacia esto, esperava el premio. Passó adelante Gualberto; y viendo una Iglesia en un monte cerca de Florencia, llamada de San Miniato, que era de Monges negros, entró en ella para dar gracias á Jesu-Christo nuestro Señor por la inerced, que le havia hecho en favorecerle, de que perdonasse, y no tomasse venganza de su enemigo: púsose de rodillas delante de un Crucifixo, el qual, viendolo él, y otros que estavan presentes, desde la Cruz inclinó la cabeza à Gualberto, como agradeciendo, y dandole gracias, de que por su amor haviesse perdonado la vida à su enemigo. Descubrióse el caso, y fue público, y muy ce lebrado, y el Crucifixo fue tenido en grande reverencia en aquella Iglesia de S. Miniato. Quedó Juan Gualberto de este acaecimiento, trocado en otro varon, y determinó dexar el mundo, y las cosas perecoderas de él.-Flos Sanctorum. Or on some half-demolish'd tomb, Whose warning texts anticipate my doom, Mark the clear orb of night Cast through the storying glass a faintly-varied light. Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power, Wandering beneath the sainted pile When the blast moans along the darksome aisle, And clattering patters all around The midnight shower with dreary sound. But sweeter 't is to wander wild By melancholy dreams beguiled, And with down-dasht torrent white Gleam hoary through the shades of night. I extract the following picture of consummate horror from the notes to a poem, written in twelve-syllable verse, upon the campaign of 1794 and 1795; it was during the retreat to Deventer. We could not proceed a hundred yards without perceiving the dead bodies of men, women, children, and horses in every direction. One scene madean impression upon my memory which time will never be able to efface. Near another cart we perceived a stout-looking man, and a beautiful young woman with an infant, about seven months old, at the breast, all three frozen and dead. The mother had most certainly expired in the act of suckling her child; as with one breast exposed, she lay upon the drifted snow, the milk to all appearance in a stream drawn from the nipple by the babe, and instantly congealed. The infant seemed as if its lips bad but just then been disengaged, and it reposed its little bead upon the mother's bosom, with an overflow of milk, frozen as it trickled from the mouth; their countenances were perfectly composed and fresh, resembling those of persons in a sound and tranquil slumber. The following description of a field of battle is in the words of one who passed over the field of Jemappe, after Damourier's victory. —« It was on the third day after the victory obtained by Gen.Dumourier over the Austrians, that I rode across the field of battle. The scene lies on a waste common, rendered then more dreary by the desertion of the miserable hovels before occupied by peasants. Every thing that resembled a buman babitation was desolated, and for the most part they had been burnt or pulled down, to prevent their affording sbelter to the posts of the contending armies. The ground was ploughed up by the wheels of the artillery and waggons; every thing like herbage was trodden into mire; broken carriages, arms, accoutrements, dead horses and men were strewed over the beath. This was the third day after the On many a carcase shine the dews of night, Speed their disastrous flight, With thee, fierce Genius! let me trace their way, battle: it was the beginning of November, and for three days a bleak wind and heavy rain had continued incessantly. There were still remaining alive several bundred of horses and of the human victims of that dreadful fight. I can speak with certainty of having seen more than four hundred men still living, unsheltered, without food, and without any human assistance, most of them confined to the spot Where some wreck'd army from the Conqueror's might where they had fallen by broken limbs. The two armies had proceeded, and abandoned these miserable wretches to their fate. Some of the dead persons appeared to have expired in the act of embracing each other. Two young French officers, who were brothers, had crawled under the side of a dead borse, where they had contrived a kind of shelter by means of a cloak; they were both mortally wounded, and groaning for each other. One very fine young man had just strength enough to drag himself out of a hollow partly filled with water, and was laid upon a little hillock groaning with agony; a grape-shot had cut across the upper part of his belly, and he was keeping in his bowels with a handkerchief and hat. He begged of me for God's sake to end his misery! he complained of d.eadful thirst. I filled him the hat of a dead soldier with water, which be nearly drank off at once, and left him to that end of his wretchedness which could not be far distant." I hope I have always felt and expressed an honest and christian abhorrence of wars, and of the systems that produce them; but my ideas of their immediate horrors fell infinitely short of this authentic picture. Τὶν γὰρ ποταείσομαι τὰν καὶ σκύλικες τρομέοντι Ερχομέναν νεκύων ἀνὰ τ ̓ ἡριὰ, καὶ μέλαν αἷμα. ΘΕΟΚΡΙΤΟΣ. DARK Horror! hear my call! Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone, Thou lovest to lie and hear The roar of waters near, Or whether o'er some wide waste hill Or if thou followest now on Greenland's shore, Or if thy fury form, When o'er the midnight deep Watches from some high cliff the increasing storm, As the black billows to the thunder rave, Thou seest the tall ship sink beneath the wave. Dark HORROR! bear me where the field of fight Of some poor sufferer left to die alone, On the heap'd snows reclining, clasps her child, Black HORROR! speed we to the bed of Death, The phantoms of the murder'd rise; Their groans for vengeance and the Demon's yell In one heart-maddening chorus swell; Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew, And night eternal darkens on his view. |