‘The Tears of Repentance’
Part First
The Mountain
A wild, sad story I tell today,
And I pray you to listen all!
You cannot think how my heart is moved,
As the legend I recall, ---
The legend that made me weep so oft,
When I was a child like you!
I tell it now, in my life’s decline,
And it brings the tears anew.
It came to us down through ages long;
For this story had its scene
In the far-away, gorgeous, stormy days
Of the empire Byzantine.
And it tells of a famous mountain chief,
A terrible, fierce brigand,
Who ravaged the country, far and wide,
At the head of an armed band.
So hard of heart was this evil man
That he spared not young nor old;
He killed and plundered, and burned and spoiled,
In his maddening thirst for gold;
Would come with a swoop on a merchant troop,
That peacefully went its way,
And the counted gains of a journey long
Were scattered in one short day!
He knew no pity, he owned no law,
Nor human, nor yet divine;
Would take the gold from a Prince’s chest,
Or the lamp from a wayside shrine.
In hidden valley, in wild ravine,
On desolate, heath-grown hill,
He buried his treasure away from sight,
And most of it lies there still.
And none were free in that land to dwell,
Except they a tribute paid;
For the robber chief, who was more than king,
Had this burden on them laid.
If any dared to resist the claim,
He was met with vengeance dire;
His lands were wasted before the dawn,
And his harvest burned with fire.
And some day maybe himself was slain,
And left in the road to lie;
To fill with terror the quaking heart
Of the next who journeyed by.
And many fled to the towns afar
And their fields were left untilled,
While want and trouble and trembling fear
Had the stricken country filled.
High up on a mountain’s pathless side
Had the robber made his den,
In a rocky cave, where he reigned supreme
Over twenty lawless men.
A price had long on his head been set,
But for that he little cared;
For few were they who could climb the way,
And fewer were those who dared.
For those who hunted him long before
Had a fearful story brought:
They were not men on the mountain side,
But demons who with them fought!
For horrible forms arose, they said,
As if from the earth they grew;
And rolled down rocks from the cliffs above
On any who might pursue.
From town to town and from land to land,
Had his evil fame been spread;
And voices lowered and lips grew grave
When the hated name they said.
The people’s heart had grown faint with fear,
And they thought no hope remained;
But hope again on their vision dawned,
When the Emperor’s ear they gained.
Mauritius reigned o’er the nations then;
He was great in warlike fame,
And he was not one to shrink or quake
At a mountain bandit’s name.
He sent a band of a hundred strong
For the troubled land’s release,
To kill the man and his bloody crew,
And to give the country peace.
For what was a robber chief to him?
He had conquered mighty kings;
He gave the order, and then ‘t was done,
And he thought of other things.
But few, alas, of that troop returned,
And they told a ghostly tale;
And women wept, and the strongest men,
As they heard, grew mute and pale.
Those soldiers oft in the war had been,
And they counted danger light;
From mortal foe had they never turned,
But with demons who could fight?
The Emperor silent was and grave,
For his thoughts were deep and wise;
He saw that the robber chief was one
Whom he could not well despise.
There might be reason in what they said,
That the demons gave him aid,
And earthly weapon would ne’er be found
That could make such foes afraid.
But yet, they will flee from sacred things,
And the martyred saints, he knew,
Have holy virtue, that to them clings,
That can all their spells undo.
But how could such weapon reach the soul
That for years had owned their sway?
A question grave that he pondered long;
But at length he found a way.
A reliquary he made prepare;
It was all of finest gold:
For as monarch might with monarch treat,
He would serve this bandit bold.
The gold was his, but the work he gave
To the skilled and patient hand
Of an artist monk, who counted then
For the first in all the land.
Now see him close to his labour bent,
In a cell remote and high,
Where all he saw of the world without
Was a square of roof and sky.
A holy man was this artist monk,
And for gain he did not ask,
If only the Lord his work would bless,
For his heart was in the task.
And day by day from his touch came forth
The image of holy things;
The cross was there, and the clustered vine,
And the dove with outspread wings, ---
The dove that bore in her golden beak
The olive in sign of peace,---
And still, as he wrought, his hand kept time
To the prayer that would not cease!
For pity stirred in him when he thought
Of that dark and stormy breast,
So hard, so hopeless, from God so far,
Where the little sign would rest.
And perhaps if angels were looking on,
(And I doubt not some were there!)
They saw that the work was sewn with pearls,
And each pearl a burning prayer.
So weeks went on, and the shrine was done,
And within it, sealed and closed,
Were holy relics of martyred saints
Who near in the church reposed.
And trusted messengers bore it forth
To the distant mountain land;
With such a weapon they need not fear;
They could meet the famed brigand.
‘T was winter now on the mountain side,
And the way was long and hard,
As the faithful envoys upward toiled
In their bandit escort’s guard,---
Toiled up to a grove of ancient firs,
For that was the place designed,
Where, after parley and long delay,
Had the meeting been combined.
No sound but their feet that crushed the snow,
And the world looked sad and dead;
They thought of lives on the mountain lost,
And it was not much they said.
The sun, as it shone with slanting ray
Through the stripped and silent trees,
Could melt but little the clinging ice
Which tonight again would freeze.
They reached the grove, and the chief was there,
Like a king in savage state;
Erect and fearless, above them all,
While his men around him wait.
He stood before them like what he was,
A terrible beast of prey;
But even tigers have something grand,
And he looked as grand as they.
But, oh, the look that he on them turned!
It was fearful to behold;
It chilled their hearts, but they did not shrink,
For their faith had made them bold.
And looking straight in those gloomy eyes,
With their hard and cruel glare,
“We come,” said one, “in the Emperor’s name,
And from him a token bear.”
Then said the chief, with a mocking smile,
“And what may my Lord command?”
And made a sign with his evil eye,
For the men on guard to stand.
No faith had he in a tale so wild,
And he somewhat feared a snare;
There might be others in hiding near,
But he did not greatly care.
Then forth came he who the relics bore,---
‘T was a prudent man and brave,---
And into the hand that all men feared,
He the holy token gave.
“This gift to you has the Emperor sent,
In token of his good will,”
He said; and at
first the fierce brigand
Stood in wonder, hushed and still.
What felt he then as that holy thing
In his guilty hand he took?
What changed his face for a moment’s time
To an almost human look?
There lay the shrine in his open palm,
Yet he thought it could not be:
“For me?” he asked, but his voice was strange,
And again he said, “for me?”
Three times the messenger told his tale,
And he said ’t was all he knew;
The bandit looked at the wondrous work,
And he could not doubt ‘t was true.
So over his neck the chain he hung,
The shrine on his bosom lay
With all its wealth of a thousand prayers;
And they were not cast away.
Day followed day in the bandit’s cave,
And a restless man was he;
A heart so hard and so proud as his
With the saints could ill agree.
The holy relics that on it lay
Did a strange confusion make;
In all that most he had loved before,
He could no more pleasure take.
A charm there was in the golden shrine
That had all his soul possessed;
He sat and looked at each sacred sign
With a dreamy sense of rest.
‘T was not the gold that could soothe him thus,
And ‘t was not the work so fine:
‘T was the holy soul of the artist monk,
For it lived in every line.
Like one who sleeps when the day begins,
And, before his slumbers end,
The morning light and the morning sounds
With his dreaming fancies blend;
So now and then would his heart be stirred
By a feeling strange and new,
And thoughts he never had known before
In his mind unconscious grew.
Till on a sudden his blinding pride,
Like a bubble, failed and broke;
With eyes wide open, the guilty man
From his life-long dream awoke.
From graves forgotten his crimes came forth,
In his face they seemed to stare:
To all one day will such waking come;
God grant it be here, not there.
Then wild remorse on his heart took hold,
And beneath its burning sting
He shrank from himself as one might shrink
From a venomous, hateful thing.
For scenes of blood from the years gone by
Forever before him came;
He closed his eyes, and his face he hid,
But he saw them just the same.
And in the horror he dared not pray,
For he felt his soul accurst,
And he feared to live, and he feared to die,
And he knew not which was worst.
Yet far on high, and beyond his reach,
He could see a vision dim,
A far-off glory of peace and love;
But he felt ‘t was not for him.
Awhile his trouble he hid from all,
For his will was iron strong,
But never was man, since man was made,
Who could bear such torment long.
A strange, sick longing was growing up
In his spirit, day by day,
A longing for what he most had feared, ---
To let justice have her way;
Until the will to a purpose grew,
To the Emperor’s fee to fly,
To own his sin without prayer or plea,
And then give up all and die.
And so one night, without sound or word,
Away in the dark he stole,
And all that he took for his journey long
Was the weight of a burdened soul.
They waited long in that den of crime,
But they saw their chief no more;
Or dead, or living, they found him not,
Though they searched the mountain o’er.
And in the country, so long oppressed,
When his sudden flight was known,
They spoke of a wild and fearful night,
When the fiends had claimed their own.
And soon the tale to a legend turned,
And men trembling used to tell
Of how they carried him, body and soul,
To the place where demons dwell.
His men, so bold, were in mortal fear
Of what might themselves befall;
So some in a convent refuge sought,
And the rest were scattered all.
And no one climbed to their empty cave,
For ‘t was called a haunted place,
Though soon the summer had swept away
Of its horror every trace.
And mountain strawberries nestled low,
And delicate harebells hung,
In beauty meek, from its broken arch,
Where the swallows reared their young.
But where had he gone, that man of woe?
Had he found the rest he sought?
In haste he went, but with noiseless tread,
As his bandit life had taught.
And going downward he met the spring,
With its mingled sun and showers;
But storms of winter he bore within,
And he did not see the flowers.
And how did he live from day to day,
And the ceaseless strain endure?
Kind hearts there are that can feel for all,
And the poor will help the poor.
In frightened pity, a shepherd girl,
As she fled o’er the daisied grass,
Would let the bread from her apron fall
On the turf where he should pass;
Or workmen, eating their noonday meal
On a bank beside the way,
Would give him food, but with outstretched arm,
And they asked him not to stay.
He went like a shadow taken shape
From some vague and awful dream,
And word of comfort for him was none,
In his misery so extreme.
Alas, from himself he could not flee,
Though he tried, poor haunted man;
And he reached the city beside the sea,
As the Holy Week began.
Part Second.
‘T was Sunday morn, and a hundred bells
With their sweet and saintly sound
Were calling the people into prayer
From the pleasant hills around,---
The morn when strivings should end in peace,
And each wrong forgotten be,
That Holy Week may its blessing shed
Upon souls from discord free.
The streets were bright with a moving throng,
And before the palace gate,
With eager eyes and in garments gay,
Did a crowd expectant wait.
For the Emperor goes in solemn state,
With his court, like all the rest,
To the church with many lamps ablaze,
Where today the palms are blest.
And stately ladies and timid girls,
In their modest plain attire,
From curtained windows are looking down,
And the shifting scene admire.
They come, they come, from the cool deep shade
Of the courtyard’s marble arch,---
The nobles all in their rich array,
And the guards with sounding march.
And stay, the square is as still as death,
For the Emperor passes now;
The girls at the window hold their breath,
And the people bend and bow.
But who is this that among them moves
With that quick and stately pace?
What see they all in his rigid look,
That they shrink and give him place?
Too late the guards would have barred the way,
For he darted swiftly by,
As hunted creatures, when hard beset,
To man in their terror fly.
And sinking low at the feet of him
He had come so far to see,
He waited silent with folded hands,
Nor asked what his fate should be.
“Who are you, come in such deep distress,
And what is the grace you seek?”
The Emperor’s voice was grave and kind,
And the stranger tried to speak.
The golden casket he raised in sight,
While he bent his eyes for shame;
Then said he, “I am that wicked man,”
And he told the dreaded name.
A shudder fell upon all who heard,
But the people nearer drew;
From mouth to mouth, in a whisper low,
The name of the bandit flew.
While he, uplifting those woeful eyes,
In the boldness of despair,
With ne’er a thought of the crowd who heard,
His errand did thus declare:
“I come not here to confess my sins,
For you know them all too well;
My crimes are many and
black and great,
They are more
than tongue can tell.
“But here at
your feet my life I lay,
I have
nothing else to give;
So now, if it
please you, speak the word,
For I am not
fit to live.”
The words
came straight from his broken heart
In such sad
and simple style,
That the
Emperor’s firm, proud lips were moved
To a somewhat
softened smile.
For his
warlike spirit felt the charm
Of that
savage strength and grace,
And the
strange fierce beauty that lingered still
In the dark
and troubled face.
So grand of
form and so lithe of limb,
And still in
his manhood’s prime,
‘T would be a
pity for one like him
To perish
before his time.
And ‘t was
well to see him kneeling there,
Whose terror
had filled the land,
Like a
captive tiger, caught and tamed
By his own
imperial hand.
“Arise” he
said, “you have nought to fear,
Take comfort
and go your way,
And may God
in heaven my sins forgive,
As I pardon
yours today.”
A murmur rose
from the crowded square,
At the sound
of words like these;
For some
rejoiced in the mercy shown,
And others it
did not please.
Some thanked
the Lord for the pardoned man,
And some were
to scorn inclined;
And motherly
women wiped their eyes,
For the
women’s hearts are kind.
“God bless
our Emperor,” many said;
But others
began to frown,
And asked,
“Will he turn this wild brigand
Adrift in our
peaceful town?”
No word of
thanks did the bandit say,
But he raised
one shining fold
Of the robe
imperial, trailing low
With its
weight of gems and gold.
The border
first to his lips he pressed,
And then to
his heavy heart;
Then rose and
waited with bended head,
Till he saw
them all depart.
No eye had he
for the gorgeous train,
As along the
square it passed;
One stately
presence was all he knew,
And he
watched it till the last.
A heavy sigh,
and he turned away,
But with slow
and weary tread;
No rest as
yet on the earth for him,
Not even
among the dead.
He lived, and
he bore his burden still,
But the dumb despair
had ceased:
That word of
mercy had brought a change,
And he now
had tears, at least;
He now could
pray, though it brought not light,
And he seemed
to ask in vain,
And his
prayer had more of tears than words,
But it helped
him bear the pain.
And oft in
church did they see him kneel
In some
corner all alone,
And weep till
the great hot drops would fall
On the floor
of varied stone.
And children
clung to their mothers’ hand,
When they saw
that vision wild,---
That haggard
face, and that wasting form,.
And those
lips that never smiled.
But grief was
wearing his life away,
And for him
perhaps ‘t was well;
It was not
long on the city street
That his
saddening shadow fell.
A fever
slowly within him burned,
Till the
springs of life were dry,
And glad he
was when they laid him down
On a hospital
bed to die.
His heart was
broken, his strength was gone,
He had no
more wish to live;
He almost
hoped that the Lord on high,
Like the Emperor,
might forgive;
That
somewhere down in the peaceful earth
He should
find a refuge yet,
A place to
rest and his eyes to close,
And the
woeful past forget.
He could not lie
where the others lay,
For such
gloom around him spread,
That soon in
a chamber far away
Had they set
his friendless bed.
‘T’ was there
he suffered and wept and prayed,
From the eyes
of all concealed:
Alas! But it
takes a weary time
For a life
like his to yield.
The grand old
hospital where he died
Was beneath
the watchful care
Of a certain
doctor, famed afar
For his skill
and learning rare.
But more than
learning and more than skill
Was his
heart, so large and kind,
That knew the
trouble and felt the needs
Of the sick
who near him pined.
With
conscience pure had he served the Lord
From youth
till his hair was grey,
Yet only pity
he felt, not scorn,
For the many
feet that stray.
In troubled
scenes had his life been passed;
He was used
to woe and sin,
And when men
suffered he did not ask
If their
lives had blameless been.
His part was
but to relieve their pain,
And he helped
and soothed and cheered;
But most he
cared for the stricken man
Whom the
others shunned and feared.
Each art to
save him he tried in vain,
And it could
but useless prove,
For the
poisoned thorn that pierced his heart
Could no
earthly hand remove.
When hope had
failed, he would kneel and pray,
And his heart
with tears outpour,
That God in
mercy would comfort send
To that soul
in torment sore.
And though
the burden he might not lift,
He could help
its weight to bear;
He talked of
mercy, of peace to come,
And he bade
him not despair.
And so, on
the last sad night of all,
‘T was the
brave, good doctor came
To watch
alone by the bandit’s side,
When he died
of grief and shame.
The spring to
summer was wearing on,
‘T was the
fairest night in May,
When sleep to
those eyes in mercy came,
And the
deadly strain gave way.
No candle
burned, for the moon was full,
And the
peaceful splendour fell
Through the
open window, lighting all:
It was like a
kind farewell.
And scents
from the garden floated in,
And the
silent fireflies came,
And breathed
and vanished, and breathed again,
With their
soft mysterious flame.
The doctor
watched with a heavy heart,
His head on
his hand was bowed;
He thought
how many his prayers had been,
But they
could not lift the cloud.
‘T was over
now, there was nothing left
For his
pitying love to do;
The worn-out
body would rest at last,
But the
guilty soul, -- who knew?
No more to do
but to watch and wait
Till the
failing breath should cease;
He longed, as
the counted minutes flew,
For one
parting smile of peace.
He looked: a
handkerchief veiled the eyes,
For they wept
until the end,
And sadly
still on the wasted cheek
Did a few
slow drops descend.
The peace
that oft to the dying comes
Was to him as
yet denied, ---
No sunset
clear after stormy day,
And no
brightening ere he died.
“Alas! He
will go away tonight,
And without
one hopeful sign,
Away from
pity, away from care,
And from such
poor help as mine!”
The doctor
sighed, but he hoped as well,
For he said,
“It cannot be
That the Lord,
who died for all, will have
No mercy for
such as he.”
‘T was then
that sleep on the doctor fell,
And before
him stood revealed,
In dreaming
vision, a wondrous sight,
From his
waking eyes concealed.
For other
watchers were in the room,
And he knew
the ghastly throng
Of demon
spirits, the very same
Whom the man
had served so long.
And two were
leaning across the bed,
And another
pressed behind,
And some in
the shadow waiting stood,
With a chain
his soul to bind.
But angels
watched by the bedside too;
‘T was a
strange and solemn scene,---
The angels
here and the demons there,
And the dying
man between.
The angels
looked with a troubled gaze
On the face
consumed with grief,
And over the
pillow bent and swayed,
As in haste
to bring relief.
And one on
the bowed and burdened head
Did a hand in
blessing lay,
And he said, “Poor
soul, come home with us,
Where the
tears are wiped away.”
“Not so,”
cried one of the demon troop,
“he is black
with every sin;
And you may
not touch our lawful prey
That we
laboured years to win.
“We bought
his soul, and the price we paid,
And our part
has well been done;
We helped him
ever from crime to crime,
Till his
buried wealth was won;
“And we
almost thought him one of us,
He had so
well learned our ways;
So go, for we
do but seek our own,
And be done
with these delays.”
The angel
said, “He has wept his sin,
As none ever
wept before,
Has mourned
till his very life gave way,
And what
could a man do more?
“And our Blessed
Lord, who pities all,
And the sins
of all has borne,
Will never
His mercy turn away
From a heart
so bruised and torn.”
“But how? And
shall mercy be for him
Who has mercy
never shown?
Can his
sorrow bring the dead to life,
Or can tears
for blood atone?
“Is he to
rest with the angels now,
Has he done
with tears and pain?
Tomorrow morn
he will wish he lay
On the
hospital bed again;
“There is
somewhat more to weep for down
In the place
where he must stay!”
The demon
looked at his fiendish mates;
And he
laughed, and so did they.
And they
gathered close, like hungry wolves,
In their
haste to rend and tear;
But they
could not touch the helpless head
While that
strong white hand was there.
Then out of
the shadow one came forth,
‘T was a
demon great and tall;
An iron
balance he held on high,
As he stood
before them all.
And fiercely
he to the angels called,
“Do you dare
to claim him still?
Then come,
for the scales are in my hand,
We will weigh
the good and ill.”
And into the nearest
scale he threw,
As he spoke,
a parchment roll,
With on it a
note of every sin
That had
stained the parting soul.
‘T was
closely written, without, within,
And the
balance downward flew
And struck
the ground with a blow, as though
It would
break the pavement through.
“He is ours
for ever,” the demons said,
“If justice
the world controls;
For sins so
heavy do on him lie,
They would
sink a hundred souls!
“Come,
hasten, angels, the time is short,
And words are
of no avail;
Come, bring
the note of your friend’s good deeds,
To lay in the
empty scale.”
The angels
searched, but they searched in vain,
There was no
good deed to bring;
In all that
ever that hand had done,
They could
find no worthy thing.
A taunting shout
from the demons broke,
And each hard
malignant face
With joy and
triumph was all aflame;
But the
angels held their place,
Though
dimness fell like a passing cloud
On their pure
and holy light;
And if ever
angel eyes have tears,
There were
some in theirs that night.
But he who
had been the first to speak,
With a
glimmering hope possessed,
Still sought
some good that would turn the scale,
Though it
seemed a useless quest.
He saw the
handkerchief where it lay,
And he raised
it off the bed,
All wet and
clinging, and steeped in tears
That the
dying eyes had shed.
He turned
around, but his face was pale,
As the last
poor chance he tried;
He laid it
down in the empty scale,
And he said,
“Let God decide!”
When, lo! It fell till it touched the earth,
And the
demons stood dismayed;
It seemed so
little and light a thing,
But it all
his sins outweighed.
But who shall
ever the anger tell
Of that black
and hateful band,
When most in
triumph they felt secure,
The prey had
escaped their hand.
They stood
one moment in speechless rage,
And then,
with a fearful sound
Of shrieks
and curses and rattling chains,
They vanished
beneath the ground.
Then holy
peace on the chamber fell,
Till it
flooded all the air;
The angels
praised and they thanked the Lord,
Who so late
had heard their prayer.
And their
clouded glory shone again,
With a clear
celestial ray,
As the
trembling soul, which that moment passed,
They bore in
their arms away.
Then through
the room, as they took their flight,
Did a flood
of music stream,
So loud, so
sweet, and so close at hand,
That it waked
him from his dream.
He looked
around; there was nothing stirred
In the empty,
moonlit room,
Where a faint,
sweet odour filled the air
From the
orange-trees in bloom.
And the notes
divine he had thought to hear
Were only the
liquid flow
Of a
nightingale’s song, that came up clear
From the
garden just below.
Then up from
his seat the doctor rose,
And he stood
beside the bed;
He knew, when
he touched the quiet hand,
That the poor
brigand was dead.
The
handkerchief on the pillow lay,
But its weary
use was o’er,
And he raised
it, heavy and wet with tears,
From the eyes
that could weep no more.
Ack. Taken from
‘The Hidden Servants’, and other very old stories’ told over again by Francesca
Alexander. Published by David Nutt, at
the Sign of the Phoenix, Long Acre, London 1911.
*****
Francesca
Alexander was the daughter of an American artist and lived most of her life in
Italy. A deeply religious woman, Protestant by upbringing, she had this to say
about her work, “With regard to this present collection of ballads, I can tell
its history in a few words. When I was a young girl many old and curious books
fell into my hands and became my favourite reading (next to the Bible, and
perhaps, the Divina Commedia), as I found in them the strong faith and
simple modes of thought which were what I liked and wanted. Afterwards in my
constant intercourse with the country people, and especially with old people,
whom I always loved, I heard a great many legends and traditions, often
beautiful, often instructive, and which, as far as I knew, had never been
written down.” As she grew older Francesca gradually lost her sight, limiting
her writing opportunities, but persuading her to adopt poetry in translating these
many works, which she believed made the stories ‘vivid and comprehensible’
particularly for children, but also for older people. In her letter Francesca,
who for most of her life worked as an artist, commented that “when the Lord
took from me one faculty, He gave me another, which in no way is impossible.
And I think of the beautiful Italian proverb: ‘When God shuts a door He opens a
window.’ “
Cardinal
Manning, when writing to Mr Ruskin in 1883 to thank him for a copy of Francesca’s
‘Story of Ida’, writes :---“It is simply beautiful, like the Floretti di San
Francesco. Such flowers can grow in one
soil alone. They can be found only in
the Garden of Faith, over which the world of light hangs visibly, and is more
intensely seen by the poor and the pure in heart than by the rich, or the
learned, or the men of culture.”
