Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE STORY OF BROTHER PAUL (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY FRANK DICKSEE), by GEORGE MURRAY (1830-1910)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE STORY OF BROTHER PAUL (SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY FRANK DICKSEE), by                    
First Line: Dear friend, you question me if I
Last Line: I sleep at last, beneath the sod!
Subject(s): Dicksee, Sir Frank (1853-1928); Love - Loss Of; Monks; Pain; Suffering; Misery


Dear friend, you question me if I
Am happy, and I thus reply:
How can I be so when my life
Seems an interminable strife
Between a pure, but earthly love,
And voices calling from above?
You start: my words sound strange and wild,
The language of some wayward child,
And so you marvel—I forget,
'Tis six long years since last we met—
You knew me then as Paul D'Estrés,
You find me "Brother Paul" to-day,
A pale, worn monk, whose life of woes
Is nearing to a welcome close.
Nay, speak not yet: for though I hate
My tragic story to relate,
Here in this Convent-garden, where
The sunlight streams, the flowers are fair,
And all around seems breathing balm,
As though each restless heart to calm—
Still, I will bare my inmost soul
To you who pity and condole.
No lapse of time can e'er destroy
The hallowed memory of the joy
I felt, when first I gazed upon
The face of Gabrielle Yvonne.
Your subtlest words can scarce express
The magic of her loveliness:
Her guileless eyes and golden hair
Still haunt my vision everywhere,
And in the Convent when I paint
Scenes from the life of some sweet Saint,
Some priceless manuscript to grace,
Each picture but repeats her face.
Our souls were one—we had no thought
But for each other—life was naught
While we were parted, and I swore
Fond vows, still cherished as of yore.
Our homes, before my father died,
Lay closely nestling side by side;
My castle now with all its lands
Has passed forever from my hands,
And, had my pride not met this fall,
I would not here be "Brother Paul."
My father died—his life had been
A course of recklessness and sin,
Since his young wife had passed away—
And for the first time, on the day
When with vain pomp his limbs were laid
Within the ancestral chapel's shade,
I learnt that if our ancient name
Could be redeemed from scorn and shame,
I must at once prepare to roam
A ruined exile from my home.
But worse than all, my Gabrielle's sire
Cursed my wrecked fortunes in his ire,
And sternly bade me ne'er again
Set foot within his broad domain.
Enough—I left my natal place,
But saved our honour from disgrace.
Years passed: where'er my footsteps sped,
My pencil won me fame—and bread—
And in my paintings you can trace
Always the same angelic face,
For earthly maid almost too fair,
With guileless eyes and golden hair,
Far from this cloister—years ago—
A youth whom erst I used to know
Here in loved Normandy, revealed
News he might better have concealed:
"Thy fair-haired Gabrielle is wed—
They lied, and told her thou wast dead!"
I fell beneath this lightning stroke,
And, from my trance when I awoke,
Six months, with raving frenzy rife,
Were cancelled from my weary life.
'Twas then that cankered by despair,
Dazed by the world's remorseless glare
I passed within this Convent wall
To bear the name of "Brother Paul."
And am I happy now, you ask:
Behold me. Do I wear a mask?
I scourge my flesh, I fast, I pray,
But in each moment of each day,
Between myself and Heaven I trace
The shadow of a saintly face,
For earthly maid almost too fair,
With guileless eyes and golden hair.
One eve, my sorrows to allay,
I sought in solitude to pray,
And while I meekly stood before
The sombre Abbey's open door,
I heard some footsteps lightly fall
On the paved walk that skirts the wall,
And as I turned my glances fell
Upon the face of Gabrielle.
Our eyes but for a moment met
In one sad gaze of fond regret;
Then in dead silence passing on,
The woman that I loved was gone.
Close by her side she led a child,
Whose lips angelically smiled,
While his small hand was reaching nigh
Two butterflies that floated by.
Ah! Who can guess the yearning pain
With which I saw my love again,
Or who can blame me for the sin
Of musing on what might have been?
With a strange thrill of tender joy
I gazed upon the lovely boy,
Till both his mother's self and he
Seemed to belong, by right, to me,
And fancy tempted me to deem
The past a false and evil dream.
But reason woke: I passed within
The Abbey's gloom, and strove to win
Christ's pardon for the thoughts that still
Confused my soul against my will.
And now my hapless tale is told,
One vision haunts me as of old—
One image never will depart
Till Death shall hush this throbbing heart,
And, trusting to the love of God,
I sleep at last, beneath the sod!





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