Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A VISION OF SAINTS: S. ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: S. ELIZABETH OF HUNGARY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Next came a queenly, youthful figure, clad
Last Line: "new heavens and new earth."
Subject(s): Elizabeth, Elizabeth (1207-1231); Saints


Next came a queenly, youthful figure, clad
In the Franciscan garb, a slender form
With dark-brown hair and eyes, whose lap was filled
With roses white and red, like those which crowned,
In token of her purity and love,
The brow of Cecily. Great tenderness
And pity beamed from out her saintly eyes,
And, kissing as she went, her stainless robe,
Knelt many a soul her faithful voice and hand
Had raised from earth to Heaven. As she came
This fair half-legendary tale I heard:

"To Andreas of Hungary the Queen,
His consort, seven long centuries ago,
Bore one fair daughter. All the realm that year
Was free from war, a bounteous harvest blessed
The peaceful land, and with her came a saint
To bless the Church of God.
From her first years
Saintly she showed and meek; no childish tear
Of petulance she shed, and when she spake
Her speech was as a prayer. All the broad plain
Of Hungary rejoiced to see her grow
Prudent as fair, and through the land the fame
Of her young goodness spread and made men glad.

Now, when King Herman, of Thuringia, learned
This prodigy, he sent an embassy
To Hungary to ask of Andreas
His daughter in betrothal for his son
Prince Lewis, and the messengers returned
And brought the child with them, and, with her, store
Of costly stuffs and jewels the far East
And rich Byzantium yielded. And the King
Loved the child well, and with her love she lived,
Brother and sister; and her youthful heart
Was filled with Heaven, and every day that came
Brought its fair tale of saintly sacrifice,
And more and more for God and in His fear
She lived her girlish life, filling her days
With pity and compassion, till she showed
As 'twere some sweet child-angel whom the hand
Of a great painter limns. Not as a child
Of this poor trivial world she seemed, but grave,
As one who strayed from Heaven to earth and found
No meet companion. But the Prince loved well
His young betrothed, albeit well he saw
She was not as the rest, fearing sometimes
Lest she might choose to be the Bride of Heaven,
And not for him. Yet, while the good King lived,
None dared to thwart the young Elizabeth
In any work of pity, nor might the tooth
Of envy touch her. But when death cut short
His life, the stranger, now a friendless maid,
Dwelt long forlorn, because the jealous Queen
And her proud daughter Agnes, envying
Her saintly life, with scoffs and jeers would mock
Her sacrifice, and deepest contumely,
So that her young and modest soul would shrink
Within her at the cruel daily taunts
Which marred her life; and all the courtly through
Marked her disgrace, and mocked her; and her sister,
The Princess Agnes, jealous of her love,
Would wring her heart, declaring that her brother
Wanted no nun for bride, but would dismiss her
To Hungary in shame. Such rankling shafts
Of venom launched they as the poisoned tongue
Of envious women can; and she, alone,
Unfriended, bare it, nor complaining word
Would speak to her betrothed, who marked it all
In silence, nor yet spake, being indeed
A youth as yet in tutelage, who owed
Obedience to the Queen, doubting, maybe,
Within his inmost heart if this pure soul
Were not too high for earth and earthly love.

But not the less his faithful love and trust
Sustained her soul. No public word he spake
Of comfort, but ofttimes, when she would sit
In tears within her chamber, sick at heart
For the despite and bitter contumely
The others showered on her, her youthful lover
Would come to her, comforting her with words;
And when they were apart, his faithful thought
Fixed on her still, he, coming, brought with him
Some little gift she loved -- a rosary
Of beads, a silver crucifix, a chain
Of gold in token of his love. And she,
Loving him next to Heaven, would dry her tears
And run to meet him, and throw girlish arms
Around him, and would strain him to her heart
And take his kisses as a maiden should
Who loves and is beloved, and with good heart
And cheerful bear her cross, nor cease at all
From works of mercy, happy in her love.

Now one day, as it chanced, her lover went
With neighbouring princes to the chase, and stayed
Longer than was his wont, and when he came,
Or over-tired or busied with his guests,
Brought not his wonted gift, nor did embrace
His love with kisses; and the jealous throng
Marked him; and she, perceiving with what joy
They saw his coldness, found her fainting heart
Sink in her, and she sent a messenger
Who should enquire of Lewis and his love.
And when he came, he found the weary Prince
Lying at rest; and when he asked of him
If he still loved the Princess, for the throng
Had marked his coldness; springing to his feet,
The Prince replied, 'Seest thou yon lofty hill
Which towers above us? If it were of gold
From base to peak, pure gold, Heaven be my witness
I would give it all for her. I love none other.
I must have my Elizabeth; I love her
Better than all the world.' And then he drew
A little silver mirror from his purse,
Wrought deftly, with an image of the Lord,
And sent it her for gage; and when the maid
Took it, she kissed with joy and reverence
The sacred image, doubting him no more
Till they were wed -- he a tall, vigorous youth,
Of ruddy cheek, blue eyes, and royal port,
And in his speech as modest as a maid;
And she a budding maiden, dark of hair
And eye, the large dark eye, which always glowed
With inward light of love and charity,
And which great pity for the labouring world
Ofttimes impearled with tears.
And so long time
They lived together in happy wedded love.
But she, within her royal cloister, still
Kept her old penances, and oft at night
She left her husband while he slept, and knelt
On the cold ground, and oftentimes she scourged
Her tender flesh; and he, who loved her dear,
Would chide her, but in vain. Yet none the less
She did fulfil her lofty courtesies,
And rode out with him to the chase, and showed
A Queen for all to see. Though when he went
She donned a mourning weed, when he returned
She, in her royal mantle clad, would greet
Her spouse, and would embrace him as he leapt
Down from his charger, every inch a Queen,
Greeting her lord with wifely tenderness;
Yet when they sat at meat, 'twas bread alone
They served to her, and in her cup they poured
Not wine, but water only, till her spouse
Tasting the cup one day, it seemed to him
The water of her saintly penance glowed
Like some celestial wine pressed from the grapes
Of Paradise, and not a word he spake,
Because he held long time his wife was served
By angel hands and fed on angels' food.

And one day, when her lord had made a feast
For all his brother princes, filled with pride
Of his fair wife, and willing that his peers
Should judge her beauty, he gave charge to her
That, clothed in costly robes, a Queen to see,
She should attend the feast; and she, who held
Obedience more than all, arrayed herself
In queenly garb. Upon her raven hair
She set a glittering diadem of gems,
And round her shapely form a royal robe
Of green and gold, and o'er her fair neck threw
An ermined mantle. As she issued forth
From out her queenly bower to join her lord,
Behold, a hapless beggar, spent with cold
And hunger, met her, asking charity;
And when he prayed her, in the sacred Name,
To succour him, she, with the holy fire
Of pity rising in her, stripped from her
The ermine, and around the shivering form
Wrapped it, and went, half doubting if her spouse
Would pardon her. And when he came, she ran
And, leaning on his bosom, told him all;
And while he stood irresolute, behold,
Her maiden with the mantle in her arms.
'Madam, I found your ermine in its place;
Did not your Highness need it?' Then she clasped it
Around her; and her husband, as he heard,
Knew well the beggar was the Lord of all;
Willing to test her love and charity;
And they together went; and all the guests
Marvelled to see her beauty -- such a light
Shone from her jewelled mantle, and her head
Seemed set with glory, and her tender eyes
Lit with the glow of Heaven and saintly love.

And one day, when she toiled amidst her poor
At Eisenach, she came upon a child
Outcast of all, because a loathly plague
Of leprosy possessed him, so that none
Would touch him. Straight she took him in her arms,
Moved by a holy pity, and up the steep
Carried him to her castle, while the throng
Of courtiers shrank from her, and in her bed
Laid him, and tended him with saintly love,
Despite the old Queen's anger, all unmoved.
And when her lord returned, and they would tell him
What they had seen, he hurried to the place,
Half in disgust, and snatched the coverlet
Aside; and, lo! no leper child was there,
Only the childish radiant form which lay
Within the manger once at Bethlehem;
And as they gazed the lovely vision smiled
And faded, and was gone.
Again, one day,
When to her work she issued forth alone
In winter down the snows, and in her robe,
To feed the hungry, doles of meat and bread,
Upon the frozen path she chanced to meet
Her husband, and in jest he greeted her.
'What dost thou here, my Elsbeth, and what store
Lies hid within thy cloak?' Then, with a blush
Of modesty divine, which lit her face
With double beauty, she drew close her robe,
Lest he should see. But he, with frolic mirth
Persisting, drew it back, and in the fold
He seemed to see, amid those wintry snows,
Celestial roses red and white, which breathed
A fragrance not of earth; and when he sought
To clasp her to his breast, lo! from her eyes
An awful radiance shone, too bright for earth:
And, bidding her go forward on her way,
One heavenly bloom he took, and next his heart
He laid it, and, with head declined, and slow,
And pondering much, climbed to their royal home.

In such good works she spent her saintly life.
When famine vexed the people, and her lord
Was with his liege far off, she opened wide
The royal granaries to save, unasked,
Those starving lives; and when the pestilence,
A dread familiar following in its train,
Seized them, her hand it was that smoothed the bed
Of sickness, rearing costly hospices
For all, but chiefly for the helpless pain
Of children. When she walked among the throng,
A tall young queenly figure breathing grace,
The little ones would cling to her and lisp
The sacred name of mother; and she stooped
And cherished them, speaking with homely words
Of comfort, and for them she sold her robes,
Her gems, and all the precious things she loved,
Nay, even the jewels of the State. And he
Returning, when they came and made complaint
Of all she lavished, with a smile would say,
'Nay, is my dear wife well, and are they well,
My children? Ay? Then it is well with me.
If she but spare my castle, it is well;
Let her give alms.' And she, with all her brood,
Came forth and flung her on his breast, and kissed
Her love, and welcomed him with tender words --
'See, I have given the Lord what is His own,
And He preserves us these.'

Thus sped their wedded lives, till the sad year
When, the third time, the armies of the Cross
Sailed forth to fight the Crescent. At their head
The Kaiser went, leading the princely throng,
And Lewis with them. And the brave man feared
One thing alone, to see his sorrowing wife
Blanch at the news. Therefore the Cross he took
Not on his breast he bore, but carried it
Hid safe from prying eyes, because he dared not
Witness her pain. But one fair summer eve,
As they together sate within her bower,
Asking of him an alms for some good end,
Which he in jest denied, she with blithe heart
Snatched his purse from him, and beheld within
The Cross, and straight, knowing what thing it was,
Swooned at his feet; and when her life returned,
Weeping, she said, 'Dear husband, stay with me
If God so will; and he, dissolved in tears:
'Dear wife, I dare not; I am vowed to Heaven.'
Then she: 'God's will be done.' And so he went;
And she a two days' journey fared with him
Ere she could say 'Farewell,' nor saw her eyes
Her love again on earth; for when he reached
The far Calabrian shore, burnt by the fire
Of fever, to the nobles round his bed
Commending his loved wife and children dear,
Within the Patriarch's arms the Landgrave died.

And she, when now the news of her lost love
Came to her, swooned away, and lay for dead
Long time, and at the last, a broken heart,
Tending her infant brood, she bore to live;
But when her shield, her stay, her strong support
Was taken from her, then she 'gan to prove
The vile despite they know who find the world,
The ungrateful world, scorning their feebleness.
From her proud castle home they drove her forth,
Her and her children, and, amid the snows
Of winter, down the rocky steep they went,
A sad procession. In her arms the Queen
Folded her suckling child, born when his sire
Was dying far away and with her went
Three faithful ladies, bearing each a child,
Seeking some hind's poor hut; and as they went
Down the rough slippery way, her weary feet
Stumbling, upon the ground she lay, and then
A thing in shape of woman, whom her hand
Tended through sickness, mocked her as she fell.
Yet not the less her sweet and patient spirit
Was all unmoved to wrath; and, having found
Some humble shelter, day by day she wrought
At spinning for her children, whom her skill
Furnished with food and clothing, till the knights
From the Crusade returning, set her boy
Upon his father's throne, and gave to her
Marbourg for dower, where with her girls she dwelt
Long unmolested.
But a pitiless man,
Conrad the priest, within whose bigot soul
Pity nor mercy dwelt; whether to make
Her life one penance, that he might increase
His baleful power o'er that pure heart, or else
Wishing to set her name among the saints,
And his the honour, laid upon her soul
Penance too hard to bear. He took from her
Her children one by one, lest too much love
Might hinder her from Heaven. He took from her
The one delight of giving, which grows strong
With waning life; and when she fain would take
The vows of San Francesco, and would beg
Her bread throughout the world, this too forbade;
And when, with clothing torn and things of shreds,
She, who was once a queen, through her own town
Wandered, the children of her loving care
Mocked her as one demented. Yet she bore
All this and worse, meek and without complaint,
Until the pious seemed to see once more
The lowly Clara and revered a saint.

Yet worse than all her unearned penances,
The tooth of slander would invade her peace;
And she, the saintly lady whose white life
Was all of Heaven, leaving within the grave
All earthly love, knew as a worldling might
The breath of shame -- she whose fair delicate flesh
Was scarred with lashes which the fanatic rage
Of the dark bigot wreaked on her. And yet
Her cup of suffering was not full; but last
The dark priest took from her the faithful hearts
Who, knowing her in honour, were content
To cleave to her disgrace, and in their stead
Sent two base creatures, who should make her drain
Dishonour to the dregs, forbidding her
The alms she loved, or that which was indeed
Her second nature -- her unsparing work
Among the poor and sick. No marvel then
That, ere her morning broadened into noon,
Her great compassion, languishing and pent
Like an undying fire within her soul,
Burned with a quenchless longing, and consumed
Her tender youth, which all her pains and stripes,
The scourge of slander, nay, her dead love's loss,
Slew not; or that her life, laid on a bed
Of suffering, day by day waned low and lower,
Nor ever again revived, but sank at last
In that thick darkness which we christen Death.

And when upon her bed she came to die,
Being but four and twenty summers old,
When she had lain twelve days or more, they heard
Who tended her, a sweet and soaring strain
Sound from her lips, as to the wall she turned
Her wasted face. All her last day on earth
She strove in prayer, till by the mystic food
Her listening ear, enfranchised, seemed to hear
Voices of angels, and the Mother of God
In converse with her, and the sound of hymns
Sweeter than any sounds of earth; and last,
When now her strength had failed, one word she spake:
'Silence!' -- no more, as one who fain would hear
The heavenly quires; and then she made response,
'Contempsi regnum mundi Domine.'
And then the voices ceased, and she with them
Closed her pure saintly life.
And round her bed
The people gathered, mourning, bathed in tears.
Four days she lay unburied in the midst,
While the crowd knelt and kissed.
And on the site
Of her poor home they reared the stately Church
Of S. Elizabeth, and her shrine within,
Built high on steps worn hollow by the knees
Of countless pilgrims since, until the storm
Of revolution burst, and violated
Those sacred walls, and one of her own blood,
The Landgrave Philip, came with impious hand
And razed the shrine, and scattered far and wide
The relics of the saint; and no man knows
Their resting-place, but her soul rests with God."

Thus he; and then, with graver thought and voice,
My soul within me burst in words and cried,
"'Be good, be good!' -- this is the word that Heaven
Proclaims, not 'happy;' or if happiness
Come, 'tis despite the pain the careless world
Wreaks upon finer souls. Here there is strife,
Injustice, suffering, and the cruel sense
Of failure, when the victor's palm, indeed,
Is theirs to claim. Death comes and takes our lives
With half our work undone, and Faith itself
Breeds its own errors and misguides the soul,
And all our happiness seems sunk in night,
Till the Great Dawn arising brings with it
New heavens and new earth."





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