Читать книгу Lays and Legends (Second Series) - Эдит Несбит, Nesbit Edith - Страница 8

Arsenius, priest of God, I tell,

For warning in your younger ears,

Humbly and plainly what befel

That year – gone by a many years —

When Veraignes church was built. Ah! then

Brave churches grew 'neath hands of men:

We see not now their like again.

We built it on the green hill-side

That leans its bosom o'er the town,

So that its presence, sanctified,

Might ever on our lives look down.

We built; and those who built not, they

Brought us their blessing day by day,

And lingered to rejoice and pray.

For years the masons toiled, for years

The craftsmen wrought till they had made

A church we scarce could see for tears —

Its fairness made our love afraid.

Its clear-cut cream-white tracery

Stood out against the deep bright sky

Like good deeds 'gainst eternity.

In the deep roof each separate beam

Had its own garland – ivy, vine, —

Giving to man the carver's dream,

In sight of men a certain sign —

And all day long the workers plied.

"The church shall finished be," we cried,

"And consecrate by Easter-tide."

Our church! It was so fair, so dear,

So fit a church to praise God in!

It had such show of carven gear,

Such chiselled work, without, within!

Such marble for the steps and floor,

Such window-jewels and such store

Of gold and gems the altar bore!

Each stone by loving hands was hewn,

By loving hands each beam was sawn;

The hammers made a merry tune

In winter dusk and summer dawn.

Love built the house, but gold had paid

For that wherewith the house was made.

"Would love had given all!" we said.

But poor in all save love were we,

And he was poor in all save gold

Who gave the gold. By usury

Were gained his riches manifold.

We knew that? If we knew, we thought

'Tis good if men do good in aught,

And by good works may heaven be bought!

At last the echo died in air

Of the last stroke. The silence then

Passed in to fill the church, left bare

Of the loving voice of Christian men.

The silence saddened all the sun,

So gladly was our work begun.

Now all that happy work was done.

Did any voices in the night

Call through those arches? Were there wings

That swept between the pillars white —

Wide pinions of unvisioned things?

The priests who watched the relics heard

Wing-whispers – not of bat or bird —

And moan of inarticulate word.

Then sunlight, morning, and sweet air

Adorned our church, and there were borne

Great sheaves of boughs of blossoms fair

To grace the consecration morn.

Then round our church trooped knight and dame;

Within, alone, the bishop came,

And the twelve candles leaped to flame.

Then round our church the bishop went

With all his priests – a brave array.

There was no sign nor portent sent

As, glad at heart, he went his way,

Sprinkling the holy water round

Three times on walls and crowd and ground

Within the churchyard's sacred bound.

Then – but ye know the function's scope

At consecration – all the show

Of torch and incense, stole and cope;

And how the acolytes do go

Before the bishop – how they bear

The lighted tapers, flaming fair,

Blown back by the sweet wavering air.

The bishop, knocking at the door,

The deacon answering from within,

"Lift up your heads, ye gates, be sure

The King of Glory shall come in" —

The bishop passed in with the choir.

Thank God for this – our soul's desire,

Our altar, meet for heaven's fire!

The bishop, kneeling in his place

Where our bright windows made day dim,

With all heaven's glory in his face,

Began the consecration hymn:

"Veni," he sang, in clear strong tone.

Then – on the instant – song was done,

Its very echo scattered – gone!

For, as the bishop's voice rang clear,

Another voice rang clearer still —

A voice wherein the soul could hear

The discord of unmeasured ill —

And sudden breathless silence fell

On all the church. And I wot well

There are such silences in hell.

Taper and torch died down – went out —

And all our church grew dark and cold,

And deathly odours crept about,

And chill, as of the churchyard mould;

And every flower drooped its head,

And all the rose's leaves were shed,

And all the lilies dropped down dead.

There, in the bishop's chair, we saw —

How can I tell you? Memories shrink

To mix anew the cup of awe

We shuddering mortals had to drink.

What was it? There! The shape that stood

Before the altar and the rood —

It was not human flesh and blood!

A light more bright than any sun,

A shade more dark than any night,

A shape that human shape was none,

A cloud, a sense of wingëd might,

And, like an infernal trumpet sound,

Rang through the church's hush profound

A voice. We listened horror-bound.

"Venio! Cease, cease to consecrate!

Love built the church, but it is mine!

'Tis built of stone hewn out by hate,

Cemented by man's blood divine.

Whence came the gold that paid for this?

From pillage of the poor, I wis —

That gold was mine, and mine this is!

"Your King has cursed the usurer's gold,

He gives it to me for my fee!

Your church is builded, but behold

Your church is fair for me – for me!

Who robs the poor to me is given;

Impenitent and unforgiven,

His church is built for hell, not heaven!"

Then, as we gazed, the face grew clear,

And all men stood as turned to stone;

Each man beheld through dews of fear

A face – his own – yet not his own;

His own face, darkened, lost, debased,

With hell's own signet stamped and traced,

And all the God in it effaced.

A crash like thunder shook the walls,

A flame like lightning shot them through:

"Fly, fly before the judgment falls,

And all the stones be fallen on you!"

And as we fled we saw bright gleams

Of fire leap out 'mid joists and beams.

Our church! Oh, love – oh, hopes – oh, dreams!

We stood without – a pallid throng —

And as the flame leaped high and higher,

Shrill winds we heard that rushed along

And fanned the transports of the fire.

The sky grew black; against the sky

The blue and scarlet flames leaped high,

And cries as of lost souls wailed by.

The church in glowing vesture stood,

The lead ran down as it were wax,

The great stones cracked and burned like wood,

The wood caught fire and flamed like flax:

A horrid chequered light and shade,

By smoke and flame alternate made,

Upon men's upturned faces played.

Down crashed the walls. Our lovely spire —

A blackened ruin – fell and lay.

The very earth about caught fire,

And flame-tongues licked along the clay.

The fire did neither stay nor spare

Till the foundations were laid bare

To the hot, sickened, smoke-filled air.

There in the sight of men it lay,

Our church that we had made so fair!

A heap of ashes white and gray,

With sparks still gleaming here and there.

The sun came out again, and shone

On all our loving work undone —

Our church destroyed, our labour gone!

Gone? Is it gone? God knows it, no!

The hands that builded built aright:

The men who loved and laboured so,

Their church is built in heaven's height!

In every stone a glittering gem,

Gold in the gold Jerusalem —

The church their love built waits for them.