Poems (Whitney)/The bridge of the dragon

by Anne Whitney

THE BRIDGE OF THE DRAGON.

Godlike is goodness!—evermore serene,
 And young, and prodigal of lovely days!
A touch of magnanimity where men are mean,
 A vestal thought in earth's polluted ways,
Forgiveness, grateful as the oak's large green,
 A generous faith in one who errs, like rays
Surviving the lost star, for ever make
A bubbling in the desert for our sake.

And so, most glad, I turn from the unreal,
 Sad shows of life, impatient lips to wet
At an old well of freshness; to that leal
 Sweet vision of St. Margaret; may she yet
Restore to many a heart its lost ideal,
 And help me for some moments to forget,
Borne on the cooling stillness of the dream,—
How the loud multitude without blaspheme!

Might it have been at such an hour as this,
 An autumn eventide, that Margaret said:
"God binds his ancient world to perfectness,
 Veined is every wind-flower with faint red,
Five petals must the wild-brier have, no less;
 And in the cavern's black and silent shade;
The hoar rocks flower, like lilies in bright air,
The secret'st thoughts of God are all so fair!

Through arching boughs, o'er which the clematis
 Tosses its misty curls, and woodbines run,
A wandering flame, and grapes swing, not the less
 For ivy near, glooms goldenly the sun,
Ag through an old church-window;—if I miss
 The pictured saints, the sounds immortal, won
From fields of silence, yet be this the glory
Leading me to those quaint days, and to my story!

Summer was flaunting wide, when sudden blight
 Paled all; the leaf, the grain; the autumn fruit
Set in the stalk; as on a perfect night
 The nightingale, mid-song, struck sudden mute.
Margaret, in sad disquiet at the sight,
 Wept for her people, wept for the poor brute
Chained to the stall: alas! and none could tell
What malady it was which thus befell.

Wild, they implored the saints—the Christ, all pale,
 All powerful, drooping from the awful rood;—
But ah, what dismal, broken-hearted wail
 Was there—what bitter freezing in the blood,
When tidings came, that prone across their vale,
 Long leagues away in the primeval wood,
With breath secreting pestilential dew,
His hideous bulk of ill, the Dragon threw!

They sought in vain to reason of their ill.
 Frantic were some, and cried bewildered:
"We are but playthings of Almighty will."—
 "Take we our flocks and cattle," others said,
"And last year's hoardings of the press and mill;
 Alas! what fruitful valley lies ahead,
Or whither shall we go, that pestilence
And aching famine may not follow hence?"

They called to mind the ancient prophecy
 That in the fiery Dragon's rule abhorred,
The first year, blight would take the grain, and dry
 The honey juices, which their orchards stored;
But if another Spring, his ghastly sigh
 Came curdling up the wind, shedding abroad
Its sick, hoar vapors, far more dreadful blight
On man and beast, and on the earth would light.

Ere then, dead seers had said, worse loss will be,
 Than loss of corn and wine:—of noble dower
In knightly skill and gentle courtesy,
 Of states' parental care:—a bitter hour
Of helpless tears and low-lipped mockery;
 When thought is low, and all abroad a power
Of subtle evil rife, and few aware,
And vernal-hearted men fail everywhere.

At morn they celebrate the solemn mass.
 In the thin light, wan look the choristers,
And wan the priest—a piteous sight, alas!
 But heart-like, tenderly, the music stirs
And throbs; and keen, strong-winged, doth overpass
 The large-eyed multitude upon the floors,
'Mid the all-powerful relics, bending low,
And 'neath St. Catherine's heaven-illumined brow.

On Margaret's lids that saintly radiance stole,
 As in the pauses of the holy chaunt,
Like a continued harmony, her soul
 Went on in thought;—as if some ministrant
And heavenly joy were given for earthly dole,
 O'er lids and brow it spread—like streams that haunt
The northern stars, waving in dreamy play,
And warmed her kneeling shadow all away.

To her it seemed, that from celestial height,
 The good- St, Catherine leaned, and said, Dear child,
The Virgin pure, mother of godlike might,
 Teaches the loving heart and undefiled,
All it shall do; have faith in that far light!
 Surely it was no dream, surely she smiled,
And bending over her still further, lo!
She kissed her warm eyelids, and kissed her brow.

The noble music softly pined away:—
 And, hiding in her bosom's blameless pride,
The glittering rosary, upon her way
 Went Margaret forth: the heavens no good denied,
No omen sweet; transparent shone the day,
 And rich with flowings of the summer tide:—
"But earth is sick," she mused, *"she takes no heed;"
And through her brain thoughts ran with crimson speed.

From day to day more grievous waxed their bale,—
 Weeks passed and months, nor any comfort brought;
Like one who treads a death-room, cold and pale,
 With velvet pace the light stole in and out;
There was no winged joy—no insect wail—
 No hum of little life always about;
Till summer wasted by, and from the north
The fierce gales blew, and drove the monster forth.

Brief joy! brief hope! sad breathing space for those
 Who but take breath to meet the coming toil!
"When May returns," they cried, "with the early rose,
 Jesus us save, and God our sins assoil!
All hope is gone from us, all dear repose,
 For guilty have we been, we may not foil
Just doom." So winter passed, and roaring March,
And April came, quick glimmering through God's arch.

Ah, what a joy!—along fresh winking rills,
 Crept the young green: the swallows, many a one,
Turned their far-travelled wings, and daffodils
 Were merry in the heart-reviving sun.
The wind-flower pale and violet o'er the hills
 Found footing here and there, and every dun,
Stark limb and twig emitted its soft flame;
And this was May, and with the rose she came.

Did then the o'erburthened winds of May-time rave?
 Or little daisies babble as they reeled?
Or came the word on some elysian wave,
 That, to a maiden it had been revealed
How, praise to Christ, she might her people save?
 Alone would she go forth through wood and field,
And passing o'er the dragon's fallen pride,
Meet them in joy upon the further side.

And they believed. Ah, blessed to believe!
 In gentleness, in love outwearying fate,
In Mary, mother, ever to believe!
 O love, be conquered never by old hate!
No noble heart of its sweet faith bereave!
 The world is watching at your palace-gate
With various eyes, and all the Past crowds here,
And all the Future waits with anxious fear.

When the first taint in May's delicious breath,
 Warned them to part, with hopeful steps apace,
They journeyed forth. Stranger, and kin, and kith,
 Slow age, and childhood with its supple grace,
And thoughtful prime, and infancy therewith,
 Depart to skirt the mountain's shadowy base,
And resting off the monster's further side,
Watch from afar what fortune should betide.

Then Silence reigned, that ancient Eremite!
 And Margaret from her dwelling, as a star,
Awakes upon some softly-bosomed night,
 Came forth: no evil taint her path might mar;
The May winds breathed about her their delight;
 The heavens spread, broad and calm, they looked not far;
With all their depth, their old, mysterious birth,
They seemed to be the feeling of the earth.

Along the valley, green, and warm, and soft,
 A fresh-leaved myrtle-branch in hand, she went;
Mildly the sober people of the croft
 Gazed after her; the little skylark lent
A soul to the embracing blue, and soon aloft
 The antique wood leaned over her, attent,
And dropped its pictured glooms upon her fair,
White-gleaming vesture and her shining hair.

What thoughts her angel steps accompanied!
 Grave legends, fragrant of the olden time;
Tales of heroic worth, and faith or deed
 Smooth tuned unto some sweet, immortal rhyme:—
But, dearest to her heart, were thoughts which fed
 Its anxious hope—of patient-love, sublime
In noiseless triumph over force and hate,
And brutal wrath, and lusts intemperate.

She was with noble Daniel, given o'er
 Unto like shaggy doom; and, unaware
Her busy heart conceived him evermore,
 As beautiful, with heavenly look, and air
By deathless youth upborne. Still memory bore
 Unto her side, true saints enshrined there,—
Heroes of life-long patience and pure will,
Who kept her heart to its calm centre still.

Through the green darkness thus she journeyed on.
 The sun went down, the brightness fled away
From the warm west, as when one dies, anon
 From brow to heart the white eclipse makes way,
And for the time a sadder grace is won,
 So ebbed the crimson current of the day
To its great, vanished heart; and over all
Looked forth the stars—far, still, ethereal.

She rested her in many a haunted woof
 Of song, and dews, and light, and shadows shifting,
As the blithe company of leaves aloof
 Danced in the fragrant night-winds calm uplifting.
Sometimes through azure chasms, in the thick roof
 High overhead, the kindling moon went drifting
In masses of white light on banks of gloom,
Or shimmering Albeles rich with sudden bloom.

And if the clouds swelled gloomily, and sent
 Their fever-tongues into the cool, dark air,
That shrined her brightness in its moving tent,
 They harmed her not:—as nature everywhere
Had dreamed a human dream, whereso she went,
 All things breathed peace. So wondrous night did wear
Into white dawn, the dawn to early day,
And in her path the mighty serpent lay.

All morning-fresh, like a new-fallen thought
 From God's deep life, stood she. She felt the jar,
The air with freaks of flame, with hiss, and spot
 Staining the amber dawn, and blood-red bar,
All elfinly alive: but she saw not,
 Nor ever on him looked; she saw afar
Her breathless people through the hiss and flame,
Their babes uplifted towards her as she came.

A moment to her heart crept the chill frost.
 One shrinking foot she set on that huge ill,
A sunbeam on a dead trunk, century-mossed;
 One step—another and another still!—
Grasping, as he would lick her hand, all lost,
 His head upturned;—she passed, and prone he fell
As the glad day came in—death's dull, blue veil
Settling o'er all his limbs and rainbow mail.