THE LEGEND OF THE CHRIST OF UNTERNACH, 307
But sudden, as the incense mounted higher,
And Holy, holy, holy, sang the choir.
With both his hands he covered his wan face,
Saying, "What do I in the holy place,
The vilest of his creatures ?" Then he passed
From out the church. The snow was thickening fast.
He wandered till the night came darkly down;
And never the snow ceased. His pilgrim gown
Was wetted through, his guiding-staff was lost,
He hardly felt the deadly biting frost
Numbing his wan, weak hands, raised helplessly
To shield him from the snow, when suddenly
He saw a little ray shine fair and bright,
A wayside Calvary's soft flickering light;
And, hastening there, he stood a little space
Gazing upon the pallid, sculptured face
Of the dead Christ until his wandering mind
Seemed a strange joy and happiness to find.
He knelt and thought the face grew pitying sweet;
Weeping, he laid his arms about the feet
And rested there; the snow that fell all day
Had drifted in and 'neath his body lay.
A wearied sleep came to him; ere he slept,
Nearer a little to the Christ he crept.
The dark hours sped. At length the knight awoke.
What wondrous light was this that round him broke?
What bloom of paradise was on the air?
The knight, with happy wonderment, was 'ware
Of one who ministered unto him-seemed
His heart with rapturous joy to faint. He dreamed
That he had passed, and at God's feet had rest;
But as his mind came back, upon his breast
He saw one hand of Him who helped did lie,
And lo! the palm was pierced! With sudden cry
He looked! the Rood's dear arms stretched bare and
The Crucified was kneeling by his side!
The face that gazed on him with pitying love
Was pale and bloodstained, and, the brow above,
The cruel thorn-crown hung; the eyes were dim
And very weary that looked down on him.
O dear Lord Christ! Thy ways are far above
Thy creatures' knowing. Thrilled with happy love,
The knight his pardon knew; his sins forgiven,
From the sweet Saviour's arms he passed to heaven.
The bishop the next morning went to prayer
Into his oratory. What sight was there
To make him pause in wild and blank amaze,
And weep, and strike his breast, and cry for grace
And pity from the Lord! His staff was bright
With bloom of silver lilies tall and white-
Lilies from God's own garden-and the place
Shone with their lustre. Falling on his face,
The bishop prayed for pardon of his sin,
And as he prayed were some who entered in
And told him how in the morning dark and gray
They'd seen a little wayside Calvary
With wondrous heavenly glory bloom and burn,
And feared to enter till the day's return,
When the light vanished, and within they found
An aged palmer lying on the ground,
Dead in the snow. The bishop hastened there
And raised the hood, and, when the face was bare,
He knew the knight, who all his wealth had given
To the Lord's service, and had passed unshriven
From out his presence yesterday. A fair
And happy smile the patient lips did wear.
O blessed death, beneath the Tree of Pain,
Where hung the Christ who surely not in vain
His Blood for sinners gave!
The bishop raised, in penitence and tears,
A stately temple there, and laid the knight
Where the high altar, gleaming fair and bright,
Of rare and precious marble rose.
When many a sad atoning year had
His own time came; his penitence complete,
Himself was laid beside the good knight's feet,
HEAR the sledges with the bells-
Silver bells!
Whata world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight.
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells;
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
On the Future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum-bells-
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavour,
Now-now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells,
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air.
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells-
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels !
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan,
And the people-ah, the people!
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone,
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A pæan from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the pean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the pean of the bells-
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells
Of the bells, bells, bells
To the sobbing of the bells;
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