GUALBERTO'S VICTORY.
A mountain-pass, so narrow that a man
Riding that way to Florence, stooping, can
Touch with his hand the rocks on either side,
And pluck the flowers that in the crannies hide—
Here, on Good Friday, centuries ago,
Mounted and armed, John Gualbert met his foe,
Mounted and armed as well, but riding down
To the fair city from the woodland brown,
This way and that swinging his jewell'd whip,
A gay old love-song on his careless lip.
An accidental meeting—yet the sun
Burned on their brows as if it had been one
Of deep design, so deadly was the look
Of mutual hate their olive faces took,
As (knightly courtesy forgot in wrath)
Neither would yield his enemy the path.
"Back!" cried Gaulberto. "Never!" yelled his foe.
And on the instant, sword in hand, they throw
Them from their saddles, nothing loth,
And fall to fighting with a smothered oath.
A pair of shapely, stalwart cavaliers,
Well-matched in stature, weapons, weight, and years,
Theirs was a long, fierce struggle on the grass,
Thrusting and parrying up and down the pass,
Swaying from left to right, till blood-drops oozed
Upon the rocks, and head and hands were bruised;
But at its close, when Gualbert stopped to rest,
His heel was planted on his foeman's breast;
And, looking up, the fallen courtier sees,
As in a dream, gray rocks and waving trees
Before his glazing eyes begin to float,
While Gualbert's sabre glitters at his throat.
"Now die, base wretch!" the victor fiercely cries,
His heart of hate outflashing from his eyes.
"Never again, by the all-righteous Lord,
Shalt thou with life escape this trusty sword!
Revenge is sweet!" And upward flash'd the steel,
But e'er it fell—dear Lord! a silvery peal
Of voices, chanting in the town below,
Rose, like a fountain's spray, from spires of snow,
And chimed, and chimed, to die in echoes slow.
In the sweet silence following the sound,
Gualberto and the man upon the ground
Glared at each other with bewildered eyes.
And then the latter, struggling to rise,
Made one last effort, while his face grew dark
With pleading agony: "Gualberto! hark!
The chant—the hour—you know the olden fashion—
The monks below intone Our Lord's dear Passion.
Oh! by this cross"—and here he caught the hilt
Of Gualbert's sword—"and by the blood once spilt
Upon it for us both long years ago,
Forgive—forget—and spare your fallen foe!"
The face that bent above grew white and set,
The lips were drawn, the brow bedew'd with sweat,
But on the grass the harmless sword was flung,
And, stooping down, the generous hero wrung
The outstretched hand. Then, lest he lose control
Of the but half-tamed passions of his soul,
Fled up the pathway, tearing casque and coat,
To ease the throbbing tempest at his throat—
Fled up the crags, as if a fiend pursued,
Nor paused until he reached the chapel rude.
There, in the cool, dim stillness, on his knees,
Trembling, he flings himself, and, startled, sees
Set in the rock a crucifix antique,
From which the wounded Christ bends down to speak:
"Thou hast done well, Gualberto. For my sake
Thou didst forgive thine enemy; now take
My gracious pardon for thy years of sin,
And from this day a better life begin."
White flash'd the angels' wings above his head,
Rare subtile perfumes thro' the place were shed;
And golden harps and sweetest voices pour'd
Their glorious hosannas to the Lord,
Who, in that hour and in that chapel quaint,
Changed, by his power, by his sweet love's constraint,
Gualbert the sinner into John the saint.