I saw a Monk of Charlemaine

    I saw a Monk¹ of Charlemaine

    Arise before my sight：

    I talk'd to the Grey Monk where he stood

    In beams of infernal light.

    ii

    Gibbon arose with a lash² of steel，

    And Voltaire with a wracking wheel：

    The Schools， in clouds of learning roll'd，

    Arose with War in iron and gold.

    iii

    `Thou lazy Monk，' they said afar，

    `In vain condemning⁴ glorious War，

    And in thy cell thou shall ever dwell.

    Rise， War， and bind⁵ him in his cell！'

    iv

    The blood red ran from the Grey Monk's side，

    His hands and feet were wounded wide，

    His body bent⁶， his arms and knees

    Like to the roots of ancient trees.

    v

    `I see， I see，' the Mother said，

    `My children will die for lack of bread.

    What more has the merciless tyrant⁷ said？'

    The Monk sat down on her stony⁸ bed.

    vi

    His eye was dry， no tear could flow；

    A hollow groan⁹ first spoke¹⁰ his woe¹¹.

    He trembled and shudder'd upon the bed；

    At length with a feeble cry he said：

    vii

    `When God commanded this hand to write

    In the studious hours of deep midnight，

    He told me that all I wrote should prove

    The bane of all that on Earth I love.

    viii

    `My brother starv'd between two walls；

    Thy children's cry my soul appals¹²：

    I mock'd at the wrack³ and griding chain；

    My bent body mocks at their torturing pain.

    ix

    `Thy father drew his sword in the North；

    With his thousands strong he is marchèd forth¹³；

    Thy brother has armèd himself in steel

    To revenge the wrongs thy children feel.

    x

    `But vain the sword and vain the bow，

    They never can work War's overthrow¹⁴；

    The hermit's prayer and the widow's tear

    Alone can free the world from fear.

    xi

    `The hand of Vengeance¹⁵ sought the bed

    To which the purple tyrant fled；

    The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head，

    And became a tyrant in his stead.

    xii

    `Until the tyrant himself relent，

    The tyrant who first the black bow bent，

    Slaughter¹⁶ shall heap the bloody¹⁷ plain：

    Resistance and War is the tyrant's gain.

    xiii

    `But the tear of love —— and forgiveness sweet，

    And submission¹⁸ to death beneath his feet ——

    The tear shall melt the sword of steel，

    And every wound it has made shall heal.

    xiv

    `For the tear is an intellectual thing，

    And a sigh is the sword of an Angel King，

    And the bitter groan of the martyr's woe

    Is an arrow from the Almighty's bow.'