Going out of the chapel after his thanksgiving, Father Vinton saw his penitent still kneeling there. "I wished I had asked him to pray for me," he said. "I must see him when he comes out."
He waited half an hour, watching, but no one appeared. The father would not for anything disturb so sacred a devotion; but he felt like looking again. Going back: to the chapel, he saw the lonely worshipper still in place, but in a slightly changed attitude. He was leaning a little wearily on the desk before him, and his shoulder and head rested against a pillar beside. His pale face was lifted, as though some one above had spoken, and he had looked up to answer.
Father Vinton hesitated, then went nearer. A morning sunbeam came in through an eastern window, stole in tender, tremulous gold over the musician's hair and brow, and looked into his eyes. So Magdalene might have looked into the sepulchre. The father bent and looked also.
Ah, Verheyden! Some One above had spoken, and he had answered.
Original.
May: A Fancy.
I cannot sing to thee a song, O May!
New-born of beauties never sung before.
On all the tourneyed fields of poesy
Bright souls have broken lance to do thee honor.
And yet (so hard it is for youth and life
To deem to-day not brighter than the past)
I cannot think they loved thee more than I,
Those silent poets in their silent graves.
I cannot think their sunshine was as golden,
Their meads as green, their wilding flowers as rife
With the low music of the laden bee,
Their clouds as soft upon the summering sky,
Their gales as wooing in the wakened forests—
Their May as much of May as thou to us.
Moreover, this I know: the tiny bark
Of the frail nautilus may crest the wave
That swelled to clasp the bosomed argosy,
Or chafed the warrior-ship's embattled side.
And so, beneath thy deep serenity
Of sunlit blue, as, thrilled and filled with May,
I lie on earth and gaze up into heaven,
Sprite Fancy doth embody me a dream;
And I dare utter it, for I am bold
On kindly Nature's mother-breast to lay
My head, and prattle of the love I bear her.
As little, earnest children deck them dolls,
And name them for the fair ones whom they love,
I prank an image out, and call it—May.
Thou shin'st, O May! upon my visioned hours,
A maiden in the prime of maidenhood,
Poised on the summer boundary of blooms,
Disparting child and woman; blent of each;
The child-smile pure upon the perfect lip,
And girlhood in the wavy wealth of curls
So lavish on the toying, amorous air,
And deep'ning in the blue uplifted eyes,
Like stainless heaven reflect from silent lakes,
The mystic, dawning holiness of woman.
She, o'er the cycled earth imperious,
Throned on the morning candor of the clouds,
Sits haloed with the worship of the sun.
Chosen is she of all her sister months
To be the bride of the imperial sun.
Disdainful suitor, he did pass unwooed
The paly elder beauties of the year,
Nor in the hoyden March, nor sportive April,
Nor majesty of June, his pleasure found:
He toyed familiar, yet scarce lovingly,
With the swart, sparkling nymphs of summer tide,
He schooled the autumn oreads in their tasks,
And, smiling, passed, and left them all, to shower
The splendid unrestraint of all his love,
And choice, and tenderness on May, his own.
This is the bridal season, and the earth,
Fondest of mothers, and the ardent bridegroom
Have ta'en all gems of earth, all rays of heaven,
Have beggared all the universe for charms
To deck the bride withal. She sits in beauty,
Crowned with the rarest radiance of morn,
Robed in the tissued blooms of all the world,
Yet loveliest for her own proud modesty;
Her glorious eyes the fairest of her jewels,
Her bridal blush her brightest ornament.
Thus maidenly, thus queenly in the skies
She waits against the coming of the bridegroom.
He, o'er the orient wave now eminent,
Through the concoursing rosy clouds of morn
Strides like a monarch 'mid a courtier throng,
Pushing soft adulation out of way;
Presses in grandeur up the noon-day height,
Half haste, all stateliness and majesty.
And over all the vastness of the world
Goes forth the tale of bliss. The roseate clouds
Blush down the tidings to the raptured sea,
Till all his crested waves are musical
With murmured joyfulness. The courier birds
Thrill myriad melodies through all the woods,
With this their joyous burden: "May is bride!"
The hoary oaks, and all the ancient trees,
On the high, rippling winds commune together,
Saying one to another: "May is bride!"