Abbot— And so you think—?
Father Benedict—I think it was the foul hand of Hell.
Abbot— Ah?
Since withered faces skir along the sky,
Might it have been some—witch?
Father Benedict— I said the hand
And that includes the fingers.
Abbot— So it does.
Well, Benedict, there you and I are one.
We hold that that which jangles God's great chime.
Whether it strike a sphere or a bell or a heart,
Springs from the pit and hath its root in Hell.
Father Benedict—Ay, we agree.
Abbot— Then follow the same path
And you shall see your seraph of the night
Bleed out his strength upon the spears of dawn.
'Twas thought that Raphael's tumbling down the rocks
Had wrecked his silver voice, and so he lay
Three years half-sunken in a slimy marsh,
His golden throat choked up with water-weeds
And fetid lilies breathing of the swamp.
'Twas said that oft when morning woke the bells
Upon the heights, a drowned voice was heard,
A strangled booming in the marsh-fogs. Well.
One Sabbath while the morning star still burned
A lone white taper, on a sudden from his couch
The ancient bellman started. The old chime
Was singing in its tower, and, like a thrush
That eyeless hath escaped a narrow cage,
The voice of Raphael on his bough again
Rang through the woods. The eagles on the crags
Shook out their wings and circled in the sky;
The mountain shepherds shouted from the rocks,
While down the ether, flaming out of the East,
Melodious angels in the sun-burst sang.
(With his eyes burning and fixed upon the Priest.)
Now, Benedict, who lifted up that bell?
Father Benedict—'Twas God reclaimed it and restored His chime.