Thursday's Serials: "The Lady of the Lake" by Sir Walter Scott (in English) - the end

Canto Six - The Guard-room

I.

The sun, awakening, through the smoky air

    Of the dark city casts a sullen glance,

Rousing each caitiff to his task of care,

    Of sinful man the sad inheritance;

Summoning revellers from the lagging dance,

    Scaring the prowling robber to his den;

Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance,

    And warning student pale to leave his pen,

And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men.

What various scenes, and O, what scenes of woe,

    Are witnessed by that red and struggling beam!

The fevered patient, from his pallet low,

    Through crowded hospital beholds it stream;

The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam,

    The debtor wakes to thought of gyve and jail,

'The love-lore wretch starts from tormenting dream:

    The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale,

Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail.

II.

At dawn the towers of Stirling rang

With soldier-step and weapon-clang,

While drums with rolling note foretell

Relief to weary sentinel.

Through narrow loop and casement barred,

The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard,

And, struggling with the smoky air,

Deadened the torches' yellow glare.

In comfortless alliance shone

The lights through arch of blackened stone,

And showed wild shapes in garb of war,

Faces deformed with beard and scar,

All haggard from the midnight watch,

And fevered with the stern debauch;

For the oak table's massive board,

Flooded with wine, with fragments stored,

And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown,

Showed in what sport the night had flown.

Some, weary, snored on floor and bench;

Some labored still their thirst to quench;

Some, chilled with watching, spread their hands

O'er the huge chimney's dying brands,

While round them, or beside them flung,

At every step their harness rung.

III.

These drew not for their fields the sword,

Like tenants of a feudal lord,

Nor owned the patriarchal claim

Of Chieftain in their leader's name;

Adventurers they, from far who roved,

To live by battle which they loved.

There the Italian's clouded face,

The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace;

The mountain-loving Switzer there

More freely breathed in mountain-air;

The Fleming there despised the soil

That paid so ill the labourer's toil;

Their rolls showed French and German name;

And merry England's exiles came,

To share, with ill-concealed disdain,

Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain.

All brave in arms, well trained to wield

The heavy halberd, brand, and shield;

In camps licentious, wild, and bold;

In pillage fierce and uncontrolled;

And now, by holytide and feast,

From rules of discipline released.

IV.

'They held debate of bloody fray,

Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray.

Fierce was their speech, and mid their words

'Their hands oft grappled to their swords;

Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear

Of wounded comrades groaning near,

Whose mangled limbs and bodies gored

Bore token of the mountain sword,

Though, neighbouring to the Court of Guard,

Their prayers and feverish wails were heard,--

Sad burden to the ruffian joke,

And savage oath by fury spoke!--

At length up started John of Brent,

A yeoman from the banks of Trent;

A stranger to respect or fear,

In peace a chaser of the deer,

In host a hardy mutineer,

But still the boldest of the crew

When deed of danger was to do.

He grieved that day their games cut short,

And marred the dicer's brawling sport,

And shouted loud, 'Renew the bowl!

And, while a merry catch I troll,

Let each the buxom chorus bear,

Like brethren of the brand and spear.'

V. Soldier's Song.

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl,

That there 's wrath and despair in the jolly black-jack,

And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack;

Yet whoop, Barnaby! off with thy liquor,

Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip

The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip,

Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly,

And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye;

Yet whoop, Jack! kiss Gillian the quicker,

Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for the vicar!

Our vicar thus preaches,--and why should he not?

For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot;

And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch

Who infringe the domains of our good Mother Church.

Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your liquor,

Sweet Marjorie 's the word and a fig for the vicar!

VI.

The warder's challenge, heard without,

Stayed in mid-roar the merry shout.

A soldier to the portal went,--

'Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent;

And--beat for jubilee the drum!--

A maid and minstrel with him come.'

Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred,

Was entering now the Court of Guard,

A harper with him, and, in plaid

All muffled close, a mountain maid,

Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view

Of the loose scene and boisterous crew.

'What news?' they roared:--' I only know,

From noon till eve we fought with foe,

As wild and as untamable

As the rude mountains where they dwell;

On both sides store of blood is lost,

Nor much success can either boast.'--

'But whence thy captives, friend? such spoil

As theirs must needs reward thy toil.

Old cost thou wax, and wars grow sharp;

Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp!

Get thee an ape, and trudge the land,

The leader of a juggler band.'

VII.

'No, comrade;--no such fortune mine.

After the fight these sought our line,

That aged harper and the girl,

And, having audience of the Earl,

Mar bade I should purvey them steed,

And bring them hitherward with speed.

Forbear your mirth and rude alarm,

For none shall do them shame or harm.--

'Hear ye his boast?' cried John of Brent,

Ever to strife and jangling bent;

'Shall he strike doe beside our lodge,

And yet the jealous niggard grudge

To pay the forester his fee?

I'll have my share howe'er it be,

Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee.'

Bertram his forward step withstood;

And, burning in his vengeful mood,

Old Allan, though unfit for strife,

Laid hand upon his dagger-knife;

But Ellen boldly stepped between,

And dropped at once the tartan screen:--

So, from his morning cloud, appears

The sun of May through summer tears.

The savage soldiery, amazed,

As on descended angel gazed;

Even hardy Brent, abashed and tamed,

Stood half admiring, half ashamed.

VIII.

Boldly she spoke: 'Soldiers, attend!

My father was the soldier's friend,

Cheered him in camps, in marches led,

And with him in the battle bled.

Not from the valiant or the strong

Should exile's daughter suffer wrong.'

Answered De Brent, most forward still

In every feat or good or ill:

'I shame me of the part I played;

And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid!

An outlaw I by forest laws,

And merry Needwood knows the cause.

Poor Rose,--if Rose be living now,'--

He wiped his iron eye and brow,--

'Must bear such age, I think, as thou.--

Hear ye, my mates! I go to call

The Captain of our watch to hall:

There lies my halberd on the floor;

And he that steps my halberd o'er,

To do the maid injurious part,

My shaft shall quiver in his heart!

Beware loose speech, or jesting rough;

Ye all know John de Brent. Enough.'

IX.

Their Captain came, a gallant young,--

Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,--

Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight;

Gay was his mien, his humor light

And, though by courtesy controlled,

Forward his speech, his bearing bold.

The high-born maiden ill could brook

The scanning of his curious look

And dauntless eye:--and yet, in sooth

Young Lewis was a generous youth;

But Ellen's lovely face and mien

Ill suited to the garb and scene,

Might lightly bear construction strange,

And give loose fancy scope to range.

'Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid!

Come ye to seek a champion's aid,

On palfrey white, with harper hoar,

Like errant damosel of yore?

Does thy high quest a knight require,

Or may the venture suit a squire?'

Her dark eye flashed;--she paused and sighed:--

'O what have I to do with pride!--

Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife,

A suppliant for a father's life,

I crave an audience of the King.

Behold, to back my suit, a ring,

The royal pledge of grateful claims,

Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James.'

X.

The signet-ring young Lewis took

With deep respect and altered look,

And said: 'This ring our duties own;

And pardon, if to worth unknown,

In semblance mean obscurely veiled,

Lady, in aught my folly failed.

Soon as the day flings wide his gates,

The King shall know what suitor waits.

Please you meanwhile in fitting bower

Repose you till his waking hour.

Female attendance shall obey

Your hest, for service or array.

Permit I marshal you the way.'

But, ere she followed, with the grace

And open bounty of her race,

She bade her slender purse be shared

Among the soldiers of the guard.

The rest with thanks their guerdon took,

But Brent, with shy and awkward look,

On the reluctant maiden's hold

Forced bluntly back the proffered gold:--

'Forgive a haughty English heart,

And O, forget its ruder part!

The vacant purse shall be my share,

Which in my barrel-cap I'll bear,

Perchance, in jeopardy of war,

Where gayer crests may keep afar.'

With thanks--'twas all she could--the maid

His rugged courtesy repaid.

XI.

When Ellen forth with Lewis went,

Allan made suit to John of Brent:--

'My lady safe, O let your grace

Give me to see my master's face!

His minstrel I,--to share his doom

Bound from the cradle to the tomb.

Tenth in descent, since first my sires

Waked for his noble house their Iyres,

Nor one of all the race was known

But prized its weal above their own.

With the Chief's birth begins our care;

Our harp must soothe the infant heir,

Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace

His earliest feat of field or chase;

In peace, in war, our rank we keep,

We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep,

Nor leave him till we pour our verse--

A doleful tribute!--o'er his hearse.

Then let me share his captive lot;

It is my right,--deny it not!'

'Little we reck,' said John of Brent,

'We Southern men, of long descent;

Nor wot we how a name--a word--

Makes clansmen vassals to a lord:

Yet kind my noble landlord's part,--

God bless the house of Beaudesert!

And, but I loved to drive the deer

More than to guide the labouring steer,

I had not dwelt an outcast here.

Come, good old Minstrel, follow me;

Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see.'

XII.

Then, from a rusted iron hook,

A bunch of ponderous keys he took,

Lighted a torch, and Allan led

Through grated arch and passage dread.

Portals they passed, where, deep within,

Spoke prisoner's moan and fetters' din;

Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored,

Lay wheel, and axe, and headsmen's sword,

And many a hideous engine grim,

For wrenching joint and crushing limb,

By artists formed who deemed it shame

And sin to give their work a name.

They halted at a Iow-browed porch,

And Brent to Allan gave the torch,

While bolt and chain he backward rolled,

And made the bar unhasp its hold.

They entered:--'twas a prison-room

Of stern security and gloom,

Yet not a dungeon; for the day

Through lofty gratings found its way,

And rude and antique garniture

Decked the sad walls and oaken floor,

Such as the rugged days of old

Deemed fit for captive noble's hold.

'Here,' said De Brent, 'thou mayst remain

Till the Leech visit him again.

Strict is his charge, the,warders tell,

To tend the noble prisoner well.'

Retiring then the bolt he drew,

And the lock's murmurs growled anew.

Roused at the sound, from lowly bed

A captive feebly raised his head.

The wondering Minstrel looked, and knew--

Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu!

For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought,

They, erring, deemed the Chief he sought.

XIII.

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore

Shall never stem the billows more,

Deserted by her gallant band,

Amid the breakers lies astrand,--

So on his couch lay Roderick Dhu!

And oft his fevered limbs he threw

In toss abrupt, as when her sides

Lie rocking in the advancing tides,

That shake her frame with ceaseless beat,

Yet cannot heave her from her seat;--

O, how unlike her course at sea!

Or his free step on hill and lea!--

Soon as the Minstrel he could scan,--

'What of thy lady?--of my clan?--

My mother?--Douglas?--tell me all!

Have they been ruined in my fall?

Ah, yes! or wherefore art thou here?

Yet speak,--speak boldly,--do not fear.'--

For Allan, who his mood well knew,

Was choked with grief and terror too.--

'Who fought?--who fled?--Old man, be brief;--

Some might,--for they had lost their Chief.

Who basely live?--who bravely died?'

'O, calm thee, Chief!' the Minstrel cried,

'Ellen is safe!' 'For that thank Heaven!'

'And hopes are for the Douglas given;--

The Lady Margaret, too, is well;

And, for thy clan,--on field or fell,

Has never harp of minstrel told

Of combat fought so true and bold.

Thy stately Pine is yet unbent,

Though many a goodly bough is rent.'

XIV.

The Chieftain reared his form on high,

And fever's fire was in his eye;

But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks

Checkered his swarthy brow and cheeks.

'Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee play,

With measure bold on festal day,

In yon lone isle,--again where ne'er

Shall harper play or warrior hear!--

That stirring air that peals on high,

O'er Dermid's race our victory.--

Strike it!--and then,--for well thou canst,--

Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced,

Fling me the picture of the fight,

When met my clan the Saxon might.

I'll listen, till my fancy hears

The clang of swords' the crash of spears!

These grates, these walls, shall vanish then

For the fair field of fighting men,

And my free spirit burst away,

As if it soared from battle fray.'

The trembling Bard with awe obeyed,--

Slow on the harp his hand he laid;

But soon remembrance of the sight

He witnessed from the mountain's height,

With what old Bertram told at night,

Awakened the full power of song,

And bore him in career along;--

As shallop launched on river's tide,

'That slow and fearful leaves the side,

But, when it feels the middle stream,

Drives downward swift as lightning's beam.

XV. Battle of Beal' An Duine.

'The Minstrel came once more to view

The eastern ridge of Benvenue,

For ere he parted he would say

Farewell to lovely loch Achray

Where shall he find, in foreign land,

So lone a lake, so sweet a strand!--

There is no breeze upon the fern,

     No ripple on the lake,

Upon her eyry nods the erne,

     The deer has sought the brake;

The small birds will not sing aloud,

     The springing trout lies still,

So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud,

That swathes, as with a purple shroud,

     Benledi's distant hill.

Is it the thunder's solemn sound

     That mutters deep and dread,

Or echoes from the groaning ground

     The warrior's measured tread?

Is it the lightning's quivering glance

     That on the thicket streams,

Or do they flash on spear and lance

     The sun's retiring beams?--

I see the dagger-crest of Mar,

I see the Moray's silver star,

Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war,

That up the lake comes winding far!

     To hero boune for battle-strife,

          Or bard of martial lay,

     'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life,

          One glance at their array!

XVI.

'Their light-armed archers far and near

     Surveyed the tangled ground,

Their centre ranks, with pike and spear,

     A twilight forest frowned,

Their barded horsemen in the rear

     The stern battalia crowned.

No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang,

     Still were the pipe and drum;

Save heavy tread, and armor's clang,

     The sullen march was dumb.

There breathed no wind their crests to shake,

     Or wave their flags abroad;

Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake

     That shadowed o'er their road.

Their vaward scouts no tidings bring,

     Can rouse no lurking foe,

Nor spy a trace of living thing,

     Save when they stirred the roe;

The host moves like a deep-sea wave,

Where rise no rocks its pride to brave

     High-swelling, dark, and slow.

The lake is passed, and now they gain

A narrow and a broken plain,

Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws;

And here the horse and spearmen pause

While, to explore the dangerous glen

Dive through the pass the archer-men.

XVII.

'At once there rose so wild a yell

Within that dark and narrow dell,

As all the fiends from heaven that fell

Had pealed the banner-cry of hell!

     Forth from the pass in tumult driven,

     Like chaff before the wind of heaven,

          The archery appear:

     For life! for life! their flight they ply--

     And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,

     And plaids and bonnets waving high,

     And broadswords flashing to the sky,

          Are maddening in the rear.

     Onward they drive in dreadful race,

          Pursuers and pursued;

     Before that tide of flight and chase,

     How shall it keep its rooted place,

          The spearmen's twilight wood?-- "

     "Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances down'

          Bear back both friend and foe! "--

     Like reeds before the tempest's frown,

     That serried grove of lances brown

          At once lay levelled low;

     And closely shouldering side to side,

     The bristling ranks the onset bide.-- "

     "We'll quell the savage mountaineer,

          As their Tinchel cows the game!

     They come as fleet as forest deer,

          We'll drive them back as tame."

XVIII.

'Bearing before them in their course

The relics of the archer force,

Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,

Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.

     Above the tide, each broadsword bright

     Was brandishing like beam of light,

          Each targe was dark below;

     And with the ocean's mighty swing,

     When heaving to the tempest's wing,

          They hurled them on the foe.

I heard the lance's shivering crash,

As when the whirlwind rends the ash;

I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,

As if a hundred anvils rang!

But Moray wheeled his rearward rank

Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank,--

          "My banner-man, advance!

     I see," he cried, "their column shake.

     Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake,

          Upon them with the lance!"--

The horsemen dashed among the rout,

     As deer break through the broom;

Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,

     They soon make lightsome room.

Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne--

     Where, where was Roderick then!

One blast upon his bugle-horn

     Were worth a thousand men.

And refluent through the pass of fear

     The battle's tide was poured;

Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,

     Vanished the mountain-sword.

As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,

     Receives her roaring linn

As the dark caverns of the deep

     Suck the wild whirlpool in,

So did the deep and darksome pass

Devour the battle's mingled mass;

None linger now upon the plain

Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

XIX.

'Now westward rolls the battle's din,

That deep and doubling pass within.--

Minstrel, away! the work of fate

Is bearing on; its issue wait,

Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile

Opens on Katrine's lake and isle.

Gray Benvenue I soon repassed,

Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast.

     The sun is set;--the clouds are met,

          The lowering scowl of heaven

     An inky hue of livid blue

          To the deep lake has given;

Strange gusts of wind from mountain glen

Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again.

I heeded not the eddying surge,

Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge,

Mine ear but heard that sullen sound,

Which like an earthquake shook the ground,

And spoke the stern and desperate strife

That parts not but with parting life,

Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll

The dirge of many a passing soul.

     Nearer it comes--the dim-wood glen

     The martial flood disgorged again,

          But not in mingled tide;

     The plaided warriors of the North

     High on the mountain thunder forth

          And overhang its side,

     While by the lake below appears

     The darkening cloud of Saxon spears.

     At weary bay each shattered band,

     Eying their foemen, sternly stand;

     Their banners stream like tattered sail,

     That flings its fragments to the gale,

     And broken arms and disarray

     Marked the fell havoc of the day.

XX.

'Viewing the mountain's ridge askance,

The Saxons stood in sullen trance,

Till Moray pointed with his lance,

     And cried: "Behold yon isle!--

See! none are left to guard its strand

But women weak, that wring the hand:

'Tis there of yore the robber band

     Their booty wont to pile;--

My purse, with bonnet-pieces store,

To him will swim a bow-shot o'er,

And loose a shallop from the shore.

Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then,

Lords of his mate, and brood, and den."

Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung,

On earth his casque and corselet rung,

     He plunged him in the wave:--

All saw the deed,--the purpose knew,

And to their clamors Benvenue

     A mingled echo gave;

The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer,

The helpless females scream for fear

And yells for rage the mountaineer.

'T was then, as by the outcry riven,

Poured down at once the lowering heaven:

A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast,

Her billows reared their snowy crest.

Well for the swimmer swelled they high,

To mar the Highland marksman's eye;

For round him showered, mid rain and hail,

The vengeful arrows of the Gael.

In vain.--He nears the isle--and lo!

His hand is on a shallop's bow.

Just then a flash of lightning came,

It tinged the waves and strand with flame;

I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame,

Behind an oak I saw her stand,

A naked dirk gleamed in her hand:--

It darkened,--but amid the moan

Of waves I heard a dying groan;--

Another flash!--the spearman floats

A weltering corse beside the boats,

And the stern matron o'er him stood,

Her hand and dagger streaming blood.

XXI.

"'Revenge! revenge!" the Saxons cried,

The Gaels' exulting shout replied.

Despite the elemental rage,

Again they hurried to engage;

But, ere they closed in desperate fight,

Bloody with spurring came a knight,

Sprung from his horse, and from a crag

Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag.

Clarion and trumpet by his side

Rung forth a truce-note high and wide,

While, in the Monarch's name, afar

A herald's voice forbade the war,

For Bothwell's lord and Roderick bold

Were both, he said, in captive hold.'--

But here the lay made sudden stand,

The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand!

Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy

How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy:

At first, the Chieftain, to the chime,

With lifted hand kept feeble time;

That motion ceased,--yet feeling strong

Varied his look as changed the song;

At length, no more his deafened ear

The minstrel melody can hear;

His face grows sharp,--his hands are clenched'

As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched;

Set are his teeth, his fading eye

Is sternly fixed on vacancy;

Thus, motionless and moanless, drew

His parting breath stout Roderick Dhu!--

Old Allan-bane looked on aghast,

While grim and still his spirit passed;

But when he saw that life was fled,

He poured his wailing o'er the dead.

XXII. Lament.

'And art thou cold and lowly laid,

Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid,

Breadalbane's boast, Clan-Alpine's shade!

For thee shall none a requiem say?--

For thee, who loved the minstrel's lay,

For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay,

The shelter of her exiled line,

E'en in this prison-house of thine,

I'll wail for Alpine's honored Pine!

'What groans shall yonder valleys fill!

What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill!

What tears of burning rage shall thrill,

When mourns thy tribe thy battles done,

Thy fall before the race was won,

Thy sword ungirt ere set of sun!

There breathes not clansman of thy line,

But would have given his life for thine.

O, woe for Alpine's honoured Pine!

'Sad was thy lot on mortal stage!--

The captive thrush may brook the cage,

The prisoned eagle dies for rage.

Brave spirit, do Dot scorn my strain!

And, when its notes awake again,

Even she, so long beloved in vain,

Shall with my harp her voice combine,

And mix her woe and tears with mine,

To wail Clan-Alpine's honoured Pine.'

XXIII.

Ellen the while, with bursting heart,

Remained in lordly bower apart,

Where played, with many-coloured gleams,

Through storied pane the rising beams.

In vain on gilded roof they fall,

And lightened up a tapestried wall,

And for her use a menial train

A rich collation spread in vain.

The banquet proud, the chamber gay,

Scarce drew one curious glance astray;

Or if she looked, 't was but to say,

With better omen dawned the day

In that lone isle, where waved on high

The dun-deer's hide for canopy;

Where oft her noble father shared

The simple meal her care prepared,

While Lufra, crouching by her side,

Her station claimed with jealous pride,

And Douglas, bent on woodland game,

Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme,

Whose answer, oft at random made,

The wandering of his thoughts betrayed.

Those who such simple joys have known

Are taught to prize them when they 're gone.

But sudden, see, she lifts her head;

The window seeks with cautious tread.

What distant music has the power

To win her in this woful hour?

'T was from a turret that o'erhung

Her latticed bower, the strain was sung.

XXIV. Lay of the Imprisoned Huntsman.

'My hawk is tired of perch and hood,

My idle greyhound loathes his food,

My horse is weary of his stall,

And I am sick of captive thrall.

I wish I were as I have been,

Hunting the hart in forest green,

With bended bow and bloodhound free,

For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time

From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,

Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,

Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matins ring,

The sable rook my vespers sing;

These towers, although a king's they be,

Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise,

And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,

Drive the fleet deer the forest through,

And homeward wend with evening dew;

A blithesome welcome blithely meet,

And lay my trophies at her feet,

While fled the eve on wing of glee,--

That life is lost to love and me!'

XXV.

The heart-sick lay was hardly said,

The listener had not turned her head,

It trickled still, the starting tear,

When light a footstep struck her ear,

And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near.

She turned the hastier, lest again

The prisoner should renew his strain.

'O welcome, brave Fitz-James!' she said;

'How may an almost orphan maid

Pay the deep debt--' 'O say not so!

To me no gratitude you owe.

Not mine, alas! the boon to give,

And bid thy noble father live;

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid,

With Scotland's King thy suit to aid.

No tyrant he, though ire and pride

May lay his better mood aside.

Come, Ellen, come! 'tis more than time,

He holds his court at morning prime.'

With heating heart, and bosom wrung,

As to a brother's arm she clung.

Gently he dried the falling tear,

And gently whispered hope and cheer;

Her faltering steps half led, half stayed,

Through gallery fair and high arcade,

Till at his touch its wings of pride

A portal arch unfolded wide.

XXVI.

Within 't was brilliant all and light,

A thronging scene of figures bright;

It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight,

As when the setting sun has given

Ten thousand hues to summer even,

And from their tissue fancy frames

Aerial knights and fairy dames.

Still by Fitz-James her footing staid;

A few faint steps she forward made,

Then slow her drooping head she raised,

And fearful round the presence gazed;

For him she sought who owned this state,

The dreaded Prince whose will was fate!--

She gazed on many a princely port

Might well have ruled a royal court;

On many a splendid garb she gazed,--

Then turned bewildered and amazed,

For all stood bare; and in the room

Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume.

To him each lady's look was lent,

On him each courtier's eye was bent;

Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen,

He stood, in simple Lincoln green,

The centre of the glittering ring,--

And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King!

XXVII.

As wreath of snow on mountain-breast

Slides from the rock that gave it rest,

Poor Ellen glided from her stay,

And at the Monarch's feet she lay;

No word her choking voice commands,--

She showed the ring,--she clasped her hands.

O, not a moment could he brook,

The generous Prince, that suppliant look!

Gently he raised her,--and, the while,

Checked with a glance the circle's smile;

Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed,

And bade her terrors be dismissed:--

'Yes, fair; the wandering poor

Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims.

To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring;

He will redeem his signet ring.

Ask naught for Douglas;--yester even,

His Prince and he have much forgiven;

Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue,

I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong.

We would not, to the vulgar crowd,

Yield what they craved with clamor loud;

Calmly we heard and judged his cause,

Our council aided and our laws.

I stanched thy father's death-feud stern

With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn;

And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own

The friend and bulwark of our throne.--

But, lovely infidel, how now?

What clouds thy misbelieving brow?

Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid;

Thou must confirm this doubting maid.'

XXVIII.

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung,

And on his neck his daughter hung.

The Monarch drank, that happy hour,

The sweetest, holiest draught of Power,--

When it can say with godlike voice,

Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice!

Yet would not James the general eye

On nature's raptures long should pry;

He stepped between--' Nay, Douglas, nay,

Steal not my proselyte away!

The riddle 'tis my right to read,

That brought this happy chance to speed.

Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray

In life's more low but happier way,

'Tis under name which veils my power

Nor falsely veils,--for Stirling's tower

Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims,

And Normans call me James Fitz-James.

Thus watch I o'er insulted laws,

Thus learn to right the injured cause.'

Then, in a tone apart and low,--

'Ah, little traitress! none must know

What idle dream, what lighter thought

What vanity full dearly bought,

Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew

My spell-bound steps to Benvenue

In dangerous hour, and all but gave

Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive!'

Aloud he spoke: 'Thou still cost hold

That little talisman of gold,

Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring,--

What seeks fair Ellen of the King?'

XXIX.

Full well the conscious maiden guessed

He probed the weakness of her breast;

But with that consciousness there came

A lightening of her fears for Graeme,

And more she deemed the Monarch's ire

Kindled 'gainst him who for her sire

Rebellious broadsword boldly drew;

And, to her generous feeling true,

She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu.

'Forbear thy suit;--the King of kings

Alone can stay life's parting wings.

I know his heart, I know his hand,

Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand;

My fairest earldom would I give

To bid Clan- Alpine's Chieftain live!--

Hast thou no other boon to crave?

No other captive friend to save?'

Blushing, she turned her from the King,

And to the Douglas gave the ring,

As if she wished her sire to speak

The suit that stained her glowing cheek.

'Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force,

And stubborn justice holds her course.

Malcolm, come forth!'--and, at the word,

Down kneeled the Graeme to Scotland's Lord.

'For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues,

From thee may Vengeance claim her dues,

Who, nurtured underneath our smile,

Hast paid our care by treacherous wile,

And sought amid thy faithful clan

A refuge for an outlawed man,

Dishonoring thus thy loyal name.--

Fetters and warder for the Graeme!'

His chain of gold the King unstrung,

The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung,

Then gently drew the glittering band,

And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand.

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

     On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;

In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,

     The deer, half seen, are to the covert wending.

Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,

     And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;

Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers blending,

     With distant echo from the fold and lea,

And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!

     Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,

And little reck I of the censure sharp

     May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way,

     Through secret woes the world has never known,

When on the weary night dawned wearier day,

     And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.--

That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,

     Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!

'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,

     'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing.

Receding now, the dying numbers ring

     Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell;

And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring

     A wandering witch-note of the distant spell--

And now, 'tis silent all!--Enchantress, fare thee well!

Good Readings: Letter from Charles L Dodgson to Ms. Isabel Seymour (in English)

Ch. Ch. Oxford

May 29, 1869

My dear Isabel,

I was so sorry to hear from Miss Lloyd of your not being well, and I hope you will not think of writing to me about 'Alice' till you are well enough to do so. I only write this on the chance of your being in the humour to read it, or to have it read to you. When you are in that state, I should like you to know the real reason of my having carried off your railway-ticket. You will guess by this, of course, that my last letter was a hoax. Well, you told me, you know, that it was your first railway-journey alone: naturally that set me thinking, "Now what can I do to give her a really exciting adventure?"

                Now three plans occurred to me. The first was to wait till the train had started from Reading, and then fire a pistol through your carriage-window, so that the bullet might go near your head and startle you a little. But there were two objections to this plan—one, that I hadn’t got a loaded pistol with me, the other, that the bullet might have gone in at a wrong window, and some people are so stupid, they might not have taken it as a joke.

                The second plan was to give you, just as the train left Reading, what should look like a Banbury-cake, but should afterwards turn out to be a rattlesnake. The only objection to this plan was, that they didn’t keep that kind at Reading. They had only common Banbury-cakes, which wouldn’t have done at all.

                The third plan was to keep the ticket, so that you might be alarmed when you got to London. Of course I arranged thoroughly with the Guard that the thing was not to be overdone. He was to look a little stern at first, and then gradually to let his expressive features kindle into a smile of benevolence. I was very particular on this point and almost my last words to him were, "Are you sure you can manage the benevolence?" and I made him practice it several times on the platform before I would let him go.

                Now you know my whole plan for making your journey a real Adventure. I only hope it succeeded. So, hoping much to hear you are better again, I remain very truly yours,

C. L. Dodgson

P.S. I must tell you candidly that the whole of this letter is a hoax, and that my real reason was—to be able to make you a nice little portable present. Friends suggested a corkscrew, a work-box, or a harmonium: but, as I cleverly remarked, "These are all very well in their way, but you can only use them sometimes—whereas a railway ticket is always handy!" Have I chosen well?

Tuesday's Serial: "The Dialogue" by St. Catherine of Siena (translated into English) - I

A TREATISE OF DIVINE PROVIDENCE

How a soul, elevated by desire of the honor of God, and of the salvation of her neighbors, exercising herself in humble prayer, after she had seen the union of the soul, through love, with God, asked of God four requests.

The soul, who is lifted by a very great and yearning desire for the honor of God and the salvation of souls, begins by exercising herself, for a certain space of time, in the ordinary virtues, remaining in the cell of self-knowledge, in order to know better the goodness of God towards her. This she does because knowledge must precede love, and only when she has attained love, can she strive to follow and to clothe herself with the truth. But, in no way, does the creature receive such a taste of the truth, or so brilliant a light therefrom, as by means of humble and continuous prayer, founded on knowledge of herself and of God; because prayer, exercising her in the above way, unites with God the soul that follows the footprints of Christ Crucified, and thus, by desire and affection, and union of love, makes her another Himself. Christ would seem to have meant this, when He said: To him who will love Me and will observe My commandment, will I manifest Myself; and he shall be one thing with Me and I with him. In several places we find similar words, by which we can see that it is, indeed, through the effect of love, that the soul becomes another Himself. That this may be seen more clearly, I will mention what I remember having heard from a handmaid of God, namely, that, when she was lifted up in prayer, with great elevation of mind, God was not wont to conceal, from the eye of her intellect, the love which He had for His servants, but rather to manifest it; and, that among other things, He used to say: "Open the eye of your intellect, and gaze into Me, and you shall see the beauty of My rational creature. And look at those creatures who, among the beauties which I have given to the soul, creating her in My image and similitude, are clothed with the nuptial garment (that is, the garment of love), adorned with many virtues, by which they are united with Me through love. And yet I tell you, if you should ask Me, who these are, I should reply" (said the sweet and amorous Word of God) "they are another Myself, inasmuch as they have lost and denied their own will, and are clothed with Mine, are united to Mine, are conformed to Mine." It is therefore true, indeed, that the soul unites herself with God by the affection of love.

So, that soul, wishing to know and follow the truth more manfully, and lifting her desires first for herself -- for she considered that a soul could not be of use, whether in doctrine, example, or prayer, to her neighbor, if she did not first profit herself, that is, if she did not acquire virtue in herself - addressed four requests to the Supreme and Eternal Father. The first was for herself; the second for the reformation of the Holy Church; the third a general prayer for the whole world, and in particular for the peace of Christians who rebel, with much lewdness and persecution, against the Holy Church; in the fourth and last, she besought the Divine Providence to provide for things in general, and in particular, for a certain case with which she was concerned.

How the desire of this soul grew when God showed her the neediness of the world.

This desire was great and continuous, but grew much more, when the First Truth showed her the neediness of the world, and in what a tempest of offense against God it lay. And she had understood this the better from a letter, which she had received from the spiritual Father of her soul, in which he explained to her the penalties and intolerable dolor caused by offenses against God, and the loss of souls, and the persecutions of Holy Church.

All this lighted the fire of her holy desire with grief for the offenses, and with the joy of the lively hope, with which she waited for God to provide against such great evils. And, since the soul seems, in such communion, sweetly to bind herself fast within herself and with God, and knows better His truth, inasmuch as the soul is then in God, and God in the soul, as the fish is in the sea, and the sea in the fish, she desired the arrival of the morning (for the morrow was a feast of Mary) in order to hear Mass. And, when the morning came, and the hour of the Mass, she sought with anxious desire her accustomed place; and, with a great knowledge of herself, being ashamed of her own imperfection, appearing to herself to be the cause of all the evil that was happening throughout the world, conceiving a hatred and displeasure against herself, and a feeling of holy justice, with which knowledge, hatred, and justice, she purified the stains which seemed to her to cover her guilty soul, she said: "O Eternal Father, I accuse myself before You, in order that You may punish me for my sins in this finite life, and, inasmuch as my sins are the cause of the sufferings which my neighbor must endure, I implore You, in Your kindness, to punish them in my person."

How finite works are not sufficient for punishment or recompense without the perpetual affection of love.

Then, the Eternal Truth seized and drew more strongly to Himself her desire, doing as He did in the Old Testament, for when the sacrifice was offered to God, a fire descended and drew to Him the sacrifice that was acceptable to Him; so did the sweet Truth to that soul, in sending down the fire of the clemency of the Holy Spirit, seizing the sacrifice of desire that she made of herself, saying: "Do you not know, dear daughter, that all the sufferings, which the soul endures, or can endure, in this life, are insufficient to punish one smallest fault, because the offense, being done to Me, who am the Infinite Good, calls for an infinite satisfaction? However, I wish that you should know, that not all the pains that are given to men in this life are given as punishments, but as corrections, in order to chastise a son when he offends; though it is true that both the guilt and the penalty can be expiated by the desire of the soul, that is, by true contrition, not through the finite pain endured, but through the infinite desire; because God, who is infinite, wishes for infinite love and infinite grief. Infinite grief I wish from My creature in two ways: in one way, through her sorrow for her own sins, which she has committed against Me her Creator; in the other way, through her sorrow for the sins which she sees her neighbors commit against Me. Of such as these, inasmuch as they have infinite desire, that is, are joined to Me by an affection of love, and therefore grieve when they offend Me, or see Me offended, their every pain, whether spiritual or corporeal, from wherever it may come, receives infinite merit, and satisfies for a guilt which deserved an infinite penalty, although their works are finite and done in finite time; but, inasmuch as they possess the virtue of desire, and sustain their suffering with desire, and contrition, and infinite displeasure against their guilt, their pain is held worthy. Paul explained this when he said: If I had the tongues of angels, and if I knew the things of the future and gave my body to be burned, and have not love, it would be worth nothing to me. The glorious Apostle thus shows that finite works are not valid, either as punishment or recompense, without the condiment of the affection of love."

How desire and contrition of heart satisfies, both for the guilt and the penalty in oneself and in others; and how sometimes it satisfies for the guilt only, and not the penalty.

"I have shown you, dearest daughter, that the guilt is not punished in this finite time by any pain which is sustained purely as such. And I say, that the guilt is punished by the pain which is endured through the desire, love, and contrition of the heart; not by virtue of the pain, but by virtue of the desire of the soul; inasmuch as desire and every virtue is of value, and has life in itself, through Christ crucified, My only begotten Son, in so far as the soul has drawn her love from Him, and virtuously follows His virtues, that is, His Footprints. In this way, and in no other, are virtues of value, and in this way, pains satisfy for the fault, by the sweet and intimate love acquired in the knowledge of My goodness, and in the bitterness and contrition of heart acquired by knowledge of one's self and one's own thoughts. And this knowledge generates a hatred and displeasure against sin, and against the soul's own sensuality, through which, she deems herself worthy of pains and unworthy of reward."

The sweet Truth continued: "See how, by contrition of the heart, together with love, with true patience, and with true humility, deeming themselves worthy of pain and unworthy of reward, such souls endure the patient humility in which consists the above-mentioned satisfaction. You ask me, then, for pains, so that I may receive satisfaction for the offenses, which are done against Me by My Creatures, and you further ask the will to know and love Me, who am the Supreme Truth. Wherefore I reply that this is the way, if you will arrive at a perfect knowledge and enjoyment of Me, the Eternal Truth, that you should never go outside the knowledge of yourself, and, by humbling yourself in the valley of humility, you will know Me and yourself, from which knowledge you will draw all that is necessary. No virtue, my daughter, can have life in itself except through charity, and humility, which is the foster-mother and nurse of charity. In self-knowledge, then, you will humble yourself, seeing that, in yourself, you do not even exist; for your very being, as you will learn, is derived from Me, since I have loved both you and others before you were in existence; and that, through the ineffable love which I had for you, wishing to re-create you to Grace, I have washed you, and re-created you in the Blood of My only-begotten Son, spilt with so great a fire of love. This Blood teaches the truth to him, who, by self-knowledge, dissipates the cloud of self-love, and in no other way can he learn. Then the soul will inflame herself in this knowledge of Me with an ineffable love, through which love she continues in constant pain; not, however, a pain which afflicts or dries up the soul, but one which rather fattens her; for since she has known My truth, and her own faults, and the ingratitude of men, she endures intolerable suffering, grieving because she loves Me; for, if she did not love Me, she would not be obliged to do so; whence it follows immediately, that it is right for you, and My other servants who have learnt My truth in this way, to sustain, even unto death, many tribulations and injuries and insults in word and deed, for the glory and praise of My Name; thus will you endure and suffer pains. Do you, therefore, and My other servants, carry yourselves with true patience, with grief for your sins, and with love of virtue for the glory and praise of My Name. If you act thus, I will satisfy for your sins, and for those of My other servants, inasmuch as the pains which you will endure will be sufficient, through the virtue of love, for satisfaction and reward, both in you and in others. In yourself you will receive the fruit of life, when the stains of your ignorance are effaced, and I shall not remember that you ever offended Me. In others I will satisfy through the love and affection which you have to Me, and I will give to them according to the disposition with which they will receive My gifts. In particular, to those who dispose themselves, humbly and with reverence, to receive the doctrine of My servants, will I remit both guilt and penalty, since they will thus come to true knowledge and contrition for their sins. So that, by means of prayer, and their desire of serving Me, they receive the fruit of grace, receiving it humbly in greater or less degree, according to the extent of their exercise of virtue and grace in general. I say then, that, through your desires, they will receive remission for their sins. See, however, the condition, namely, that their obstinacy should not be so great in their despair as to condemn them through contempt of the Blood, which, with such sweetness, has restored them.

"What fruit do they receive?

"The fruit which I destine for them, constrained by the prayers of My servants, is that I give them light, and that I wake up in them the hound of conscience, and make them smell the odor of virtue, and take delight in the conversation of My servants.

"Sometimes I allow the world to show them what it is, so that, feeling its diverse and various passions, they may know how little stability it has, and may come to lift their desire beyond it, and seek their native country, which is the Eternal Life. And so I draw them by these, and by many other ways, for the eye cannot see, nor the tongue relate, nor the heart think, how many are the roads and ways which I use, through love alone, to lead them back to grace, so that My truth may be fulfilled in them. I am constrained to do so by that inestimable love of Mine, by which I created them, and by the love, desire, and grief of My servants, since I am no despiser of their tears, and sweat, and humble prayers; rather I accept them, inasmuch as I am He who give them this love for the good of souls and grief for their loss. But I do not, in general, grant to these others, for whom they pray, satisfaction for the penalty due to them, but, only for their guilt, since they are not disposed, on their side, to receive, with perfect love, My love, and that of My servants. They do not receive their grief with bitterness, and perfect contrition for the sins they have committed, but with imperfect love and contrition, wherefore they have not, as others, remission of the penalty, but only of the guilt; because such complete satisfaction requires proper dispositions on both sides, both in him that gives and him that receives. Wherefore, since they are imperfect, they receive imperfectly the perfection of the desires of those who offer them to Me, for their sakes, with suffering; and, inasmuch as I told you that they do receive remission, this is indeed the truth, that, by that way which I have told you, that is, by the light of conscience, and by other things, satisfaction is made for their guilt; for, beginning to learn, they vomit forth the corruption of their sins, and so receive the gift of grace.

"These are they who are in a state of ordinary charity, wherefore, if they have trouble, they receive it in the guise of correction, and do not resist over much the clemency of the Holy Spirit, but, coming out of their sin, they receive the life of grace. But if, like fools, they are ungrateful, and ignore Me and the labors of My servants done for them, that which was given them, through mercy, turns to their own ruin and judgment, not through defect of mercy, nor through defect of him who implored the mercy for the ingrate, but solely through the man's own wretchedness and hardness, with which, with the hands of his free will, he has covered his heart, as it were, with a diamond, which, if it be not broken by the Blood, can in no way be broken. And yet, I say to you, that, in spite of his hardness of heart, he can use his free will while he has time, praying for the Blood of My Son, and let him with his own hand apply It to the diamond over his heart and shiver it, and he will receive the imprint of the Blood which has been paid for him. But, if he delays until the time be past, he has no remedy, because he has not used the dowry which I gave him, giving him memory so as to remember My benefits, intellect, so as to see and know the truth, affection, so that he should love Me, the Eternal Truth, whom he would have known through the use of his intellect. This is the dowry which I have given you all, and which ought to render fruit to Me, the Father; but, if a man barters and sells it to the devil, the devil, if he choose, has a right to seize on everything that he has acquired in this life. And, filling his memory with the delights of sin, and with the recollection of shameful pride, avarice, self-love, hatred, and unkindness to his neighbors (being also a persecutor of My servants), with these miseries, he has obscured his intellect by his disordinate will. Let such as these receive the eternal pains, with their horrible stench, inasmuch as they have not satisfied for their sins with contrition and displeasure of their guilt. Now, therefore, you have understood how suffering satisfies for guilt by perfect contrition, not through the finite pain; and such as have this contrition in perfection satisfy not only for the guilt, but also for the penalty which follows the guilt, as I have already said when speaking in general; and if they satisfy for the guilt alone, that is, if, having abandoned mortal sin, they receive grace, and have not sufficient contrition and love to satisfy for the penalty also, they go to the pains of Purgatory, passing through the second and last means of satisfaction.

"So you see that satisfaction is made, through the desire of the soul united to Me, who am the Infinite Good, in greater or less degree, according to the measure of love, obtained by the desire and prayer of the recipient. Wherefore, with that very same measure with which a man measures to Me, do he receive in himself the measure of My goodness. Labor, therefore, to increase the fire of your desire, and let not a moment pass without crying to Me with humble voice, or without continual prayers before Me for your neighbors. I say this to you and to the father of your soul, whom I have given you on earth. Bear yourselves with manful courage, and make yourselves dead to all your own sensuality."

How very pleasing to God is the willing desire to suffer for Him.

"Very pleasing to Me, dearest daughter, is the willing desire to bear every pain and fatigue, even unto death, for the salvation of souls, for the more the soul endures, the more she shows that she loves Me; loving Me she comes to know more of My truth, and the more she knows, the more pain and intolerable grief she feels at the offenses committed against Me. You asked Me to sustain you, and to punish the faults of others in you, and you did not remark that you were really asking for love, light, and knowledge of the truth, since I have already told you that, by the increase of love, grows grief and pain, wherefore he that grows in love grows in grief. Therefore, I say to you all, that you should ask, and it will be given you, for I deny nothing to him who asks of Me in truth. Consider that the love of divine charity is so closely joined in the soul with perfect patience, that neither can leave the soul without the other. For this reason (if the soul elect to love Me) she should elect to endure pains for Me in whatever mode or circumstance I may send them to her. Patience cannot be proved in any other way than by suffering, and patience is united with love as has been said. Therefore bear yourselves with manly courage, for, unless you do so, you will not prove yourselves to be spouses of My Truth, and faithful children, nor of the company of those who relish the taste of My honor, and the salvation of souls."

How every virtue and every defect is obtained by means of our neighbor.

"I wish also that you should know that every virtue is obtained by means of your neighbor, and likewise, every defect; he, therefore, who stands in hatred of Me, does an injury to his neighbor, and to himself, who is his own chief neighbor, and this injury is both general and particular. It is general because you are obliged to love your neighbor as yourself, and loving him, you ought to help him spiritually, with prayer, counseling him with words, and assisting him both spiritually and temporally, according to the need in which he may be, at least with your goodwill if you have nothing else. A man therefore, who does not love, does not help him, and thereby does himself an injury; for he cuts off from himself grace, and injures his neighbor, by depriving him of the benefit of the prayers and of the sweet desires that he is bound to offer for him to Me. Thus, every act of help that he performs should proceed from the charity which he has through love of Me. And every evil also, is done by means of his neighbor, for, if he do not love Me, he cannot be in charity with his neighbor; and thus, all evils derive from the soul's deprivation of love of Me and her neighbor; whence, inasmuch as such a man does no good, it follows that he must do evil. To whom does he evil? First of all to himself, and then to his neighbor, not against Me, for no evil can touch Me, except in so far as I count done to Me that which he does to himself. To himself he does the injury of sin, which deprives him of grace, and worse than this he cannot do to his neighbor. Him he injures in not paying him the debt, which he owes him, of love, with which he ought to help him by means of prayer and holy desire offered to Me for him. This is an assistance which is owed in general to every rational creature; but its usefulness is more particular when it is done to those who are close at hand, under your eyes, as to whom, I say, you are all obliged to help one another by word and doctrine, and the example of good works, and in every other respect in which your neighbor may be seen to be in need; counseling him exactly as you would yourselves, without any passion of self-love; and he (a man not loving God) does not do this, because he has no love towards his neighbor; and, by not doing it, he does him, as you see, a special injury. And he does him evil, not only by not doing him the good that he might do him, but by doing him a positive injury and a constant evil. In this way sin causes a physical and a mental injury. The mental injury is already done when the sinner has conceived pleasure in the idea of sin, and hatred of virtue, that is, pleasure from sensual self-love, which has deprived him of the affection of love which he ought to have towards Me, and his neighbor, as has been said. And, after he has conceived, he brings forth one sin after another against his neighbor, according to the diverse ways which may please his perverse sensual will. Sometimes it is seen that he brings forth cruelty, and that both in general and in particular.

"His general cruelty is to see himself and other creatures in danger of death and damnation through privation of grace, and so cruel is he that he reminds neither himself nor others of the love of virtue and hatred of vice. Being thus cruel he may wish to extend his cruelty still further, that is, not content with not giving an example of virtue, the villain also usurps the office of the demons, tempting, according to his power, his fellow-creatures to abandon virtue for vice; this is cruelty towards his neighbors, for he makes himself an instrument to destroy life and to give death. Cruelty towards the body has its origin in cupidity, which not only prevents a man from helping his neighbor, but causes him to seize the goods of others, robbing the poor creatures; sometimes this is done by the arbitrary use of power, and at other times by cheating and fraud, his neighbor being forced to redeem, to his own loss, his own goods, and often indeed his own person.

"Oh, miserable vice of cruelty, which will deprive the man who practices it of all mercy, unless he turn to kindness and benevolence towards his neighbor!

"Sometimes the sinner brings forth insults on which often follows murder; sometimes also impurity against the person of his neighbor, by which he becomes a brute beast full of stench, and in this case he does not poison one only, but whoever approaches him, with love or in conversation, is poisoned.

"Against whom does pride bring forth evils? Against the neighbor, through love of one's own reputation, whence comes hatred of the neighbor, reputing one's self to be greater than he; and in this way is injury done to him. And if a man be in a position of authority, he produces also injustice and cruelty and becomes a retailer of the flesh of men. Oh, dearest daughter, grieve for the offense against Me, and weep over these corpses, so that, by prayer, the bands of their death may be loosened!

"See now, that, in all places and in all kinds of people, sin is always produced against the neighbor, and through his medium; in no other way could sin ever be committed either secret or open. A secret sin is when you deprive your neighbor of that which you ought to give him; an open sin is where you perform positive acts of sin, as I have related to you. It is, therefore, indeed the truth that every sin done against Me, is done through the medium of the neighbor."

How virtues are accomplished by means of our neighbor, and how it is that virtues differ to such an extent in creatures.

"I have told you how all sins are accomplished by means of your neighbor, through the principles which I exposed to you, that is, because men are deprived of the affection of love, which gives light to every virtue. In the same way self-love, which destroys charity and affection towards the neighbor, is the principle and foundation of every evil. All scandals, hatred, cruelty, and every sort of trouble proceed from this perverse root of self-love, which has poisoned the entire world, and weakened the mystical body of the Holy Church, and the universal body of the believers in the Christian religion; and, therefore, I said to you, that it was in the neighbor, that is to say in the love of him, that all virtues were founded; and, truly indeed did I say to you, that charity gives life to all the virtues, because no virtue can be obtained without charity, which is the pure love of Me.

"Wherefore, when the soul knows herself, as we have said above, she finds humility and hatred of her own sensual passion, for she learns the perverse law, which is bound up in her members, and which ever fights against the spirit. And, therefore, arising with hatred of her own sensuality, crushing it under the heel of reason, with great earnestness, she discovers in herself the bounty of My goodness, through the many benefits which she has received from Me, all of which she considers again in herself. She attributes to Me, through humility, the knowledge which she has obtained of herself, knowing that, by My grace, I have drawn her out of darkness and lifted her up into the light of true knowledge. When she has recognized My goodness, she loves it without any medium, and yet at the same time with a medium, that is to say, without the medium of herself or of any advantage accruing to herself, and with the medium of virtue, which she has conceived through love of Me, because she sees that, in no other way, can she become grateful and acceptable to Me, but by conceiving, hatred of sin and love of virtue; and, when she has thus conceived by the affection of love, she immediately is delivered of fruit for her neighbor, because, in no other way, can she act out the truth she has conceived in herself, but, loving Me in truth, in the same truth she serves her neighbor.

"And it cannot be otherwise, because love of Me and of her neighbor are one and the same thing, and, so far as the soul loves Me, she loves her neighbor, because love towards him issues from Me. This is the means which I have given you, that you may exercise and prove your virtue therewith; because, inasmuch as you can do Me no profit, you should do it to your neighbor. This proves that you possess Me by grace in your soul, producing much fruit for your neighbor and making prayers to Me, seeking with sweet and amorous desire My honor and the salvation of souls. The soul, enamored of My truth, never ceases to serve the whole world in general, and more or less in a particular case according to the disposition of the recipient and the ardent desire of the donor, as I have shown above, when I declared to you that the endurance of suffering alone, without desire, was not sufficient to punish a fault.

"When she has discovered the advantage of this unitive love in Me, by means of which, she truly loves herself, extending her desire for the salvation of the whole world, thus coming to the aid of its neediness, she strives, inasmuch as she has done good to herself by the conception of virtue, from which she has drawn the life of grace, to fix her eye on the needs of her neighbor in particular. Wherefore, when she has discovered, through the affection of love, the state of all rational creatures in general, she helps those who are at hand, according to the various graces which I have entrusted to her to administer; one she helps with doctrine, that is, with words, giving sincere counsel without any respect of persons, another with the example of a good life, and this indeed all give to their neighbor, the edification of a holy and honorable life. These are the virtues, and many others, too many to enumerate, which are brought forth in the love of the neighbor; but, although I have given them in such a different way, that is to say not all to one, but to one, one virtue, and to another, another, it so happens that it is impossible to have one, without having them all, because all the virtues are bound together. Wherefore, learn, that, in many cases I give one virtue, to be as it were the chief of the others, that is to say, to one I will give principally love, to another justice, to another humility, to one a lively faith, to another prudence or temperance, or patience, to another fortitude. These, and many other virtues, I place, indifferently, in the souls of many creatures; it happens, therefore, that the particular one so placed in the soul becomes the principal object of its virtue; the soul disposing herself, for her chief conversation, to this rather than to other virtues, and, by the effect of this virtue, the soul draws to herself all the other virtues, which, as has been said, are all bound together in the affection of love; and so with many gifts and graces of virtue, and not only in the case of spiritual things but also of temporal. I use the word temporal for the things necessary to the physical life of man; all these I have given indifferently, and I have not placed them all in one soul, in order that man should, perforce, have material for love of his fellow. I could easily have created men possessed of all that they should need both for body and soul, but I wish that one should have need of the other, and that they should be My ministers to administer the graces and the gifts that they have received from Me. Whether man will or no, he cannot help making an act of love. It is true, however, that that act, unless made through love of Me, profits him nothing so far as grace is concerned. See then, that I have made men My ministers, and placed them in diverse stations and various ranks, in order that they may make use of the virtue of love.

"Wherefore, I show you that in My house are many mansions, and that I wish for no other thing than love, for in the love of Me is fulfilled and completed the love of the neighbor, and the law observed. For he, only, can be of use in his state of life, who is bound to Me with this love."

How virtues are proved and fortified by their contraries.

"Up to the present, I have taught you how a man may serve his neighbor, and manifest, by that service, the love which he has towards Me.

"Now I wish to tell you further, that a man proves his patience on his neighbor, when he receives injuries from him.

"Similarly, he proves his humility on a proud man, his faith on an infidel, his true hope on one who despairs, his justice on the unjust, his kindness on the cruel, his gentleness and benignity on the irascible. Good men produce and prove all their virtues on their neighbor, just as perverse men all their vices; thus, if you consider well, humility is proved on pride in this way. The humble man extinguishes pride, because a proud man can do no harm to a humble one; neither can the infidelity of a wicked man, who neither loves Me, nor hopes in Me, when brought forth against one who is faithful to Me, do him any harm; his infidelity does not diminish the faith or the hope of him who has conceived his faith and hope through love of Me, it rather fortifies it, and proves it in the love he feels for his neighbor. For, he sees that the infidel is unfaithful, because he is without hope in Me, and in My servant, because he does not love Me, placing his faith and hope rather in his own sensuality, which is all that he loves. My faithful servant does not leave him because he does not faithfully love Me, or because he does not constantly seek, with hope in Me, for his salvation, inasmuch as he sees clearly the causes of his infidelity and lack of hope. The virtue of faith is proved in these and other ways. Wherefore, to those, who need the proof of it, My servant proves his faith in himself and in his neighbor, and so, justice is not diminished by the wicked man's injustice, but is rather proved, that is to say, the justice of a just man. Similarly, the virtues of patience, benignity, and kindness manifest themselves in a time of wrath by the same sweet patience in My servants, and envy, vexation, and hatred demonstrate their love, and hunger and desire for the salvation of souls. I say, also, to you, that, not only is virtue proved in those who render good for evil, but, that many times a good man gives back fiery coals of love, which dispel the hatred and rancor of heart of the angry, and so from hatred often comes benevolence, and that this is by virtue of the love and perfect patience which is in him, who sustains the anger of the wicked, bearing and supporting his defects. If you will observe the virtues of fortitude and perseverance, these virtues are proved by the long endurance of the injuries and detractions of wicked men, who, whether by injuries or by flattery, constantly endeavor to turn a man aside from following the road and the doctrine of truth. Wherefore, in all these things, the virtue of fortitude conceived within the soul, perseveres with strength, and, in addition proves itself externally upon the neighbor, as I have said to you; and, if fortitude were not able to make that good proof of itself, being tested by many contrarieties, it would not be a serious virtue founded in truth."

Monday's Illustrated Word: Untitled Story by Unknown Writer (in English)

art by Joe Simon - Amazing Man Comics #10 - Centaur, March 1940.

"Veni, Creator Spíritus" attributed to Rabanus Maurus (in Latin and translated into Portuguese and English)

Veni, Creator Spíritus,
mentes tuórum visita,
imple supérna grátia,
quae tu creásti péctora.

Qui díceris Paráclitus,
altíssimi donum Dei,
fons vivus, ignis, cáritas,
et spiritális únctio.

Tu septifórmis múnere,
dígitus paternae déxterae,
tu rite promíssum Patris,
sermóne ditans gúttura.

Accénde lumen sénsibus;
infunde amórem córdibus,
infírma nostri córporis
virtúte firmans pérpeti.

Hostem repéllas lóngius,
pacémque dones prótinus;
ductóre sic te praevio
vitemus omne noxium.

Per te sciámus da Patrem,
noscamus atque Filium;
teque utriúsque Spíritum
credamus omni témpore.

Deo Patri sit glória,
et Fillio, qui a mórtuis
surréxit, ac Paráclito,
in saeculórum saecula. Amem.

V/ Emítte Spíritum tuum, et creabúntur.
R/ Et renovábis fáciem terrae.

Deus qui corda fidélium Sancti Spíritus illustratióne docuísti: da nobis in eódem Spíritu recta sápere; et de ejus semper consolatióne gaudére. Per Christum dominum nostrum. Amém.



Vinde, Espírito Criador,
visitai as almas dos Vossos,
enchei de graça celestial,
os corações que criastes.

Sois o Divino Consolador,
o dom do Deus Altíssimo,
fonte viva, o fogo, a caridade,
a unção dos espirituais.

Com os Vossos sete dons,
sois o dedo da direita de Deus,
Solene promessa do Pai,
Inspirando nossas palavras.

Acendei a luz nos sentidos;
insuflai o amor nos corações,
amparai na constante virtude
a nossa carne enfraquecida.

Afastai para longe o inimigo,
Trazei-nos prontamente a paz;
Assim guiados por Vós
Evitaremos todo o mal.

Por Vós explicar-se-á o Pai,
E conheceremos o Filho;
Dai-nos crer sempre em Vós
Espírito do Pai e do Filho.

Glória ao Pai, Senhor,
Ao Filho que ressuscitou
Assim como ao Consolador.
Por todos os séculos. Amém.

V/ Enviai, Senhor, o vosso espírito e tudo será criado.
R/ E renovareis a face da terra.

Ó Deus, que ilustrastes os corações dos fiéis com as luzes do Espírito Santo, dai-nos, pelo mesmo Espírito, procurar o que é reto, e nos alegrarmos sempre com a sua consolação. Por Jesus Cristo Nosso Senhor. Amém.



Come, Holy Ghost, Creator blest,
and in our hearts take up Thy rest;
come with Thy grace and heav'nly aid,
To fill the hearts which Thou hast made.

O Comforter, to Thee we cry,
Thou heav'nly gift of God most high,
Thou Fount of life, and Fire of love,
and sweet anointing from above.

O Finger of the hand divine,
the sevenfold gifts of grace are thine;
true promise of the Father thou,
who dost the tongue with power endow.

Thy light to every sense impart,
and shed thy love in every heart;
thine own unfailing might supply
to strengthen our infirmity.

Drive far away our ghostly foe,
and thine abiding peace bestow;
if thou be our preventing Guide,
no evil can our steps betide.

Praise we the Father and the Son
and Holy Spirit with them One;
and may the Son on us bestow
the gifts that from the Spirit flow.

V/ Send forth Thy Spirit, and they shall be created.
R/ And Thou shalt renew the face of the earth.

O God, Who didst instruct the hearts of the faithful by the light of the Holy Ghost: give to us, in the same Spirit, to know what is right, and ever rejoice in His consolation. Through Jesus Christ, Thy Son, our Lord, Who with Thee livest and reignest in the unity of the same Holy Spirit, God. World without end. Amen.

Friday's Sung Word: "Menina dos Meus Olhos" by Lamartine Babo and Noel Rosa (in Portuguese)

Menina dos olhos castanhos,
Que reside lá na serra,
Bem juntinho de Deus,
Tu és a menina dos meus olhos,
Estou cego de saudade
Pelos olhos seus.

A serra não precisa de luar,
É iluminada pela luz do teu olhar,
Até o próprio sol resolveu não brilhar
Pra não perder (pra quem?) pro teu olhar!

Teus olhos abusaram do clarão
Parecem fogos dominando a multidão
Num rasgo de luz teu olhar produziu
Foi o luar (de quem?) do meu Brasil

You can hear "Menina dos Meus Olhos" sung by Gaúcho and Orlando Silva here.