# Littell's Living Age/Volume 128/Issue 1651/Silenced and Forgotten

SILENCED AND FORGOTTEN.
A MONK'S SOLILOQUY.
* I did not know that I had gifts: I knew
* That something in my soul seemed burning through,
* That I must speak or perish; and I spake,
* And lo, the faces round me seemed to wake,
* Till through each form I saw an angel shine,
* And still my voice spoke words that were not mine.
* I said that He on whom Madonna smiled
* Shared all his birthright with each mother’s child;
* That sin and weakness could not touch the soul
* Whose source was God, and God its only goal;
* And that each heart, by tenderest love it bore,
* Could scarcely guess our Father's more and more!
* I did not plant the way of life with flowers;
* I said our Master's way must still be ours,
* Living and dying; that gain comes as loss;
* And heaven’s true crown shows earthward as a cross.
* Nor did I close the purgatorial door,
* I but wrote love where wrath was writ before.
* Ah, God! how did the weary faces light,
* I felt mine own catch glory at the sight.
* One woman, whose grey head was ever bowed,
* Looked up at last and blessed the Lord aloud;
* And one dark man dropped something on the ground
* — Next day the sacristan a dagger found.
* I know not how I ended; like a dream
* Did abbey, altar, choir, and concourse seem.
* But something else waxed real as they waned faint,
* — They came about me, angel, martyr, saint,
* Earth lay a mist below heaven's sunlit hill,
* And nameless heights were rising round it still.
* Was it agony or rapture? Can I say?
* I only know that when it passed away
* It was as if a sea had rolled between
* Me and mine old self that once had been;
* For even Marco's praises seemed to pall,
* And Carlo's sneering touched me not at all.
* Next day the cardinal would speak with me,
* And full of gentleness and praise was he;
* Only he bade me always recollect
* I had the Church's interest to protect,
* The times were perilous, and such as I
* Were raised by God, the Church to fortify.
* I thanked him humbly. (I was simple then,
* And dreamed "the Church" meant struggling souls of men.)
* And so I went on preaching, and I thought
* The cardinal would thank God when I brought
* Some heretics (who long had strayed away)
* Back to God's holy house on holy day.
* It was so sweet to see sad faces cheer,
* And have sad hearts to one's own heart draw near,
* That kept me glad and humble in those days,
* So that I marvelled not at no more praise,
* And when the mandate came "to preach no more,"
* The brethren said it should have come before!
* 'Twas like the day of death — when words are new
* From the dear lips that speak no more to you,
* And you can't realize the days to come,
* The unbroken silence in the empty home.
* There is no sorrow while the eyes are dim
* The dead stays with you while you weep for him.
* But slowly the cold misery o'er me stole,
* The iron pierced my flesh and reached my soul.
* Could God have really given me words to say,
* And yet have taken chance of speech away?
* Have shown me how the world was hungering sore,
* Only to let me feed it nevermore?
* There was a pang of self, but that soon spent;
* Let others speak, and I should be content
* To sit in silence. But to know the pain
* Of all those weary hearts, and how a chain
* Binds them to steadfast love, and yet to sit
* And leave them shut in hell, by fearing it!
* I cannot paint as Angelico could,
* I cannot join the anthem, or I would,
* And if to plead the suffering of the poor
* I with the brothers go from door to door,
* Fra Marco, with his soft, persuasive tones,
* Wins bread and coin where I get gibes and stones.
* I could do this one thing, but may no more,
* And I am changed from what I was before,
* I who have told of love, seem full of spite.
* I cannot bear, I stand upon my right;
* I am a useless and an evil man,
* God planned my life, and let men spoil His plan.
* But, hush, what is the utmost that I would,
* To give my life to God is all I could;
* And this may be the way He wills to take,
* This daily death may be for God's own sake;
* He gave and took. So let my soul be still —
* He has a thousand sons to do His will.
* I would have given my body to the flame,
* He asks instead my genius and my fame;
* I would have let my youth and bloom depart,
* He asks for broken nerves and failing heart.
* (Our own dear Master did not grudge the day,
* His weakness asked the cup might pass away.)
* There is a sweet dream sometimes comforts me,
* In some far land, a crowded fane I see,
* And one, with eyes which watch a dawning day,
* Is saying more than all I tried to say;
* And I am in the throng which hangs above,
* Where man translates one word of God's great love.
* But then I dwell on heaven's sunlit hill,
* Gazing on heights that rise above me still.
* And I come down no more to chilling praise,
* To sneers, to wearing out of empty days,
* But rest, rejoicing in the power I've won,
* To go on learning, though my crying's done.
* And then the dawn comes whitely to my cell,
* The brothers wake me, and I say, "'Tis well,"
* And rise and turn to my slow, idle day.
* (Letters of rose are graven well on grey;
* He lightly spares a bud who holds the flower;
* A moment's patience sometimes saves an hour.)
* Isabella Fyvie Mayo.
* Sunday Magazine.