Burlington weekly free press. [volume] (Burlington, Vt.) 1866-1928, 1878-06-21
T HE
by Mrs. Julia c. II. Dorr

| READ AT THE EDITORIAL REUNION AT BRANDON
| W., TUESDAY, JUNE 18TH, 1878.
Friar Anselmo for a secret sin
| Sat bowed with grief the convent cell within;
| Nor dared, such was his shame, to lift his eyes
To the low wall whereon, in dreadful guise,
The dead CHRIST hung upon the cursed tree,
| Browning he thought, upon his misery.
What was his sin it matters not to tell.
But he was young and strong, the records say
Perhaps he wearied OF his narrow cell;
| Perhaps he longed to work, rs well NJ pray;
Perhaps his heart too warmly beat that day
Perhsps-for life is long-ths weary road
| That he must travel bearing as load
| The slow, monotonous hours that one by one,
Dragged in a lengthening chain from sun to sun
| Appalled, his eager spirit, and his VOW
| Pressed like an iron hand upon his brow.
Perhaps some dream of love, of home, OF wife,
Had stirred this tumult in his lonely life,
Tempting his soul to barter heavenly Hiss,
And sell its birthright for a womsn'skiss
At all events, the struggle had been hard
And as a bird from the glad ether barred.
80 had he beat his wings till, bruised and torn,
lie wished that night he never had been born
And still the dead CHRIST on the cured Tree
Seemed hut to mock his hopeless misery
Still Mary Mother turned her eyes away,
Nor saint nor angel bent to hear him tray
The calm, cold moonlight through the easement
shone;
Weird shadows darkened on the floor of stone;
Without, what solemn splendors and within
What fearful wrestlinys with despair and sin
sudden and loud the cloister bell outrans
Afar door swung to with sullen clang;
And overhead he heard the rhy thmic beat,
TIE measured monOtoneo OF many feet
Seeking the chapel for the Midnight prayer.
Black wings seemed lowering round him in the air,
Beating him back $ with stifled moan
lie would have sought the holy altar stone.
Then with swift. sharp cry. PROSTATE he fell
Before the crucifx. "The gates of hell
shall not prevail against me !" loud he cried,
Stretching his arms to CHRIST, the crucified.
..By Thy dread cross, Thy dying agony,
Thine awful passion, LORD, deliver me-"
Was it drsaml The taunting demons led /;
Through the dim eel wondrous glory spread;
And all the air was filed with rare perfumes
Waited from censers rich with heavenly blooms.
TRANSPORTED stood the CHRIST before his eyes,
Clothed in white samite, woven IN Paradise,
And from the empty cross upon the wall
Streamed wide splendcr that enc ompassed all.
Was it a dream Anselmo's sight grew dim
The clustered chamber seemed TO reel and swim
Yet well his spirit knew the glorious guest,
And all his manhood rose to meet the test
What wilt Thou have me, Lord, to dol" he cried
With paliid lips, ard Kissed the sacred feet
And then 10 accents strangely calm, Jet sweet,
These woods he heard from CHnIsr. the crucifed,
Tho plying CHRIST his Utmost soul who read,
With all its wild unrest, its doubt and dread;
MAKE THOU A COPY OF My Holy WORD"
Then my site presences about him stirred.
The vision faded. At the dawn Of day
PROSTATE and pallid in tho dusk no lay.
Was 1t dream ! GoD knows! The narrow cell
Wore the old aspect he had learned so well,
And from the crucifix upon the wall
No glory streamed Illuminating all
Yet still a subtitle fragrance filed the ROOM
And looking round him in the soft, gray gloom,
Anselmo saw upon the iretted floor
An eagles quill that this grave legend bore
HE works most nobly for his fellowmen
Who gives My word to them, by tongue or pen"
Henceiorth anselmo prayed. but worked as we'll,
Nor felt the bondage of his cloistor cell !,
For all his soul was filled with high intent,
lie had no dream save its accomplishment
To make a copy OF the Holy Word,
Fairer than eye had seen, or ear had heard,
Or heart conceived OF Day by day he wrought,
His fingers guided by single thought;
Forming each letter with the tenderest care,
With points Of richest color here and there
With birds on swayins boushs and butterflies
Poised on gay wings DER sprays of eglantine
With tangled tracery of flower and vine
Through which CLEANED cherub faces, half di-
vine
With fading leaves that drift when summer dies,
And angels floating down the evening skies
Each word an orison, each line prayer!
Slowly the work went on IRON day to day;
The seasons came and went; May followed May
Year after year passed by with stately tread
To join the countless legions OF the dead,
Till Fra Anselmo wan and bowed with age,
Bent, gray monk, above the parchment page.
Death waited till he wrote the last fair line,
Then touched his hand and closed the Book Divine