Post by Tamrin on Oct 17, 2009 15:37:23 GMT 10
St. John's Eve
A Legend Of Strasbourg Cathedral
[Poem - by Edward Legge, 1870, www.mpoets.org - Linked above]
A Legend Of Strasbourg Cathedral
[Poem - by Edward Legge, 1870, www.mpoets.org - Linked above]
[The story runs that once in every twelve months, on the Eve of St. John, when the quiet burghers of Strasbourg are wrapt in peaceful slumber, and when the hour of midnight clangs out from the loud-tongued bell which hangs in the old Cathedral tower, the spirits of the stone-masons, by whose hands the sacred pile was erected, arise from the tomb, and once more revisit the scene of their former labours.]
I.
The city sleeps; the watchman treads the sadly silent street,
And lingers long in eager hope some comrade he may greet;
From yonder gable-ended house a lanthorn dimly flings
Its pallid light, the while the Watch each hour till daylight sings.
II.
No sounds of mirth or revelry disturb the slumbering town;
Alike on Emperor and boor the twinkling stars look down;
The lusty burghers sleep the sleep of virtuous men and just —
No sounder will they sleep, I ween, till all are changed to dust.
III.
Midnight! The witching hour's proclaimed by every steeple-clock —
Fit time for elves, and fays, and ghosts in grim array to flock —
The time for incantations weird, and gloomy sounds and sights,
The play-hours for the changeling crew and mischief-making sprites.
IV.
The first stroke of the midnight hour rings in the watchman's ears;
With shuffling steps he hastens on, a prey to doubts and fears;
For well he kens the story old, heard at his mother's knee,
That on the Eve of good St. John strange visions you may see.
V.
Where the Cathedral dimly looms, the trembling shadows fall,
And he who stands within the pile — as black as funeral pall —
May see such ghostly sights and hear such ghostly sounds and sighs
As when, amid night's gloom, the soul from out the body flies.
VI.
Along the crypt, along the nave, along each columned aisle,
Across the gleaming marble floor there come in serried file
The spirit-shapes of men of eld, in olden fashion dressed —
A fearsome sight is that to all, who see those shadows blest.
VII.
From oriel windows, where the moon shines on the pictured shapes
Of Men-at-arms, and holy Saints, and Nuns in sombre capes,
And effigies of gallant Knights who fought in the Crusades,
There streams, while yet the hour-bell rings, a train of elfin shades —
VIII.
A band of handicraftsmen skilled — a rare masonic band,
The masters holding compasses and rules in each thin hand;
The craftsmen with their plumbs and squares and levels all bedight,
The 'Prentice-lads their gavels bear among the pillars white.
IX.
Hand grasping hand, breast clasped to breast, friend silently greets friend;
Before the altar, the devout most reverential bend;
And some enraptured linger there where stands the holy pyx,
Whilst others bow the knee before the blessed Crucifix.
X.
The deep-mouthed bells' far-sounding notes betoken that the day,
With all its cares, and joys, and hopes, and fears has passed away;
And as the last notes tremble high and softly die in air,
The shadowy throng sweep fast along the choir and belfry-stair.
XI.
The fleeting train of Shadows glides around the building thrice —
No need the obstacles to clear — they pass them in a trice;
Old Erwin proudly leads the way — his comrades follow fast —
The sculptured Saints look down in love on those defiling past.
XII.
But strangest sight of all this night — most beautiful, I wis —
Is that fair form that floats above where Mary Mother's kiss
Meets hers when others may not see, when others may not hear,
And when the only visitants are Seraphs hovering near:
XIII.
Sabina, Erwin's lovely child, clad in angelic white,
With maul and chisel, smiles on all, the guardian of the night;
Around the spire, around the tower, around the oriels red,
She flits, and all gaze eagerly and watch her fairy tread.
XIV.
For chisel sharp and mallet dull symbolic e'er will be
Of that rare craft and brotherhood yclept Masonry;
And Erwin's daughter represents, with all the shadowy band,
Those who today, as yesterday, in love walk hand-in-hand.
XV.
But now the eastern window shows a trace of red and gold,
The spirit-shapes they fade, and fall beneath the marble cold;
And when the hour for Matins comes, and all is prayer and praise,
Those will be few who do not give a thought to olden days.
XVI.
This is the story as 'twas told to me in Strasbourg town,
One summer night, when moon and stars refulgently shone down;
And when the Rhenish wine was drunk, and fairy smoke wreaths curled,
I took this loving glance into the Mediaeval world.
The city sleeps; the watchman treads the sadly silent street,
And lingers long in eager hope some comrade he may greet;
From yonder gable-ended house a lanthorn dimly flings
Its pallid light, the while the Watch each hour till daylight sings.
II.
No sounds of mirth or revelry disturb the slumbering town;
Alike on Emperor and boor the twinkling stars look down;
The lusty burghers sleep the sleep of virtuous men and just —
No sounder will they sleep, I ween, till all are changed to dust.
III.
Midnight! The witching hour's proclaimed by every steeple-clock —
Fit time for elves, and fays, and ghosts in grim array to flock —
The time for incantations weird, and gloomy sounds and sights,
The play-hours for the changeling crew and mischief-making sprites.
IV.
The first stroke of the midnight hour rings in the watchman's ears;
With shuffling steps he hastens on, a prey to doubts and fears;
For well he kens the story old, heard at his mother's knee,
That on the Eve of good St. John strange visions you may see.
V.
Where the Cathedral dimly looms, the trembling shadows fall,
And he who stands within the pile — as black as funeral pall —
May see such ghostly sights and hear such ghostly sounds and sighs
As when, amid night's gloom, the soul from out the body flies.
VI.
Along the crypt, along the nave, along each columned aisle,
Across the gleaming marble floor there come in serried file
The spirit-shapes of men of eld, in olden fashion dressed —
A fearsome sight is that to all, who see those shadows blest.
VII.
From oriel windows, where the moon shines on the pictured shapes
Of Men-at-arms, and holy Saints, and Nuns in sombre capes,
And effigies of gallant Knights who fought in the Crusades,
There streams, while yet the hour-bell rings, a train of elfin shades —
VIII.
A band of handicraftsmen skilled — a rare masonic band,
The masters holding compasses and rules in each thin hand;
The craftsmen with their plumbs and squares and levels all bedight,
The 'Prentice-lads their gavels bear among the pillars white.
IX.
Hand grasping hand, breast clasped to breast, friend silently greets friend;
Before the altar, the devout most reverential bend;
And some enraptured linger there where stands the holy pyx,
Whilst others bow the knee before the blessed Crucifix.
X.
The deep-mouthed bells' far-sounding notes betoken that the day,
With all its cares, and joys, and hopes, and fears has passed away;
And as the last notes tremble high and softly die in air,
The shadowy throng sweep fast along the choir and belfry-stair.
XI.
The fleeting train of Shadows glides around the building thrice —
No need the obstacles to clear — they pass them in a trice;
Old Erwin proudly leads the way — his comrades follow fast —
The sculptured Saints look down in love on those defiling past.
XII.
But strangest sight of all this night — most beautiful, I wis —
Is that fair form that floats above where Mary Mother's kiss
Meets hers when others may not see, when others may not hear,
And when the only visitants are Seraphs hovering near:
XIII.
Sabina, Erwin's lovely child, clad in angelic white,
With maul and chisel, smiles on all, the guardian of the night;
Around the spire, around the tower, around the oriels red,
She flits, and all gaze eagerly and watch her fairy tread.
XIV.
For chisel sharp and mallet dull symbolic e'er will be
Of that rare craft and brotherhood yclept Masonry;
And Erwin's daughter represents, with all the shadowy band,
Those who today, as yesterday, in love walk hand-in-hand.
XV.
But now the eastern window shows a trace of red and gold,
The spirit-shapes they fade, and fall beneath the marble cold;
And when the hour for Matins comes, and all is prayer and praise,
Those will be few who do not give a thought to olden days.
XVI.
This is the story as 'twas told to me in Strasbourg town,
One summer night, when moon and stars refulgently shone down;
And when the Rhenish wine was drunk, and fairy smoke wreaths curled,
I took this loving glance into the Mediaeval world.
