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


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A VISION OF SAINTS: S. ROCH, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Then a form meek
Last Line: "in honour now, who died a prisoner here."
Subject(s): Roch, Saint (1350-1379); Saints


Then a form meek
And pitiful, in manhood's early prime,
With mild soft eyes, who wore the pilgrim's garb,
The scallop in his hat, the staff, the scrip,
The wallet, and yet seemed a noble still
For all his poverty; and my guide said --

"In Languedoc, of noble parents came,
When thirteen centuries were passed from Christ,
A youth, who bore upon his breast from birth,
Symbol of dedication to the Faith,
A tiny cross. Him with all pious care
His mother, Libera, for works of good
And sanctity, through all his glowing youth,
Trained year by year; and on his soul he bore
The cross, as on his breast, and gave his life,
His heart, his all, to Heaven.
But not with him
The pale ascetic fervours of the cell,
Nor cloistered virtues lived apart from men,
Where the rapt soul communes alone with God,
Prevailed; but life lived as his Master's erst,
Among the poor and weak, healing the sick,
And filled with pity for the fallen lives
Of sinners, raising them to light and hope --
Life spending happy, and laborious days,
Each bringing something of accomplished good,
And sinking at its close in well-earned rest; --
'Twas this blest lot he prized.
Thus, all his youth
He lived in innocence. But ere he reached
The gate of early manhood, Death, which comes
To rich and poor, took from him at a blow
His father's guiding hand, his mother's prayers,
And he, an orphan, rich in lands and gold,
Was left to work what work was his, alone

Then with no pause of doubt, knowing the words
Of his dear Master, and remembering well
His answer to the youth who, rich as he,
Would fain obey, straightway he gathered all
His wealth, and of it to the poor and weak
Gave part in alms, and of the rest he reared
Hospices for the sick, wherein the skill
Of wise physicians, working under Heaven,
Might heal them; and he donned a pilgrim's garb,
And then on foot, obscure, like any hind,
Painful with staff and wallet toiled to Rome.

But when his feet had left the Alpine snows,
Crossing the Lombard plain, one eve, he climbed,
Through groves of oak, to where, its slender towers
Dark on the twilight glow, throbbing with noise
Of loud-tongued waters hurrying to the plain,
By Orvieto's city and sacred shrine,
Acquapendente hung. But as he came,
The nameless dread of some invisible ill,
The unguarded city gates, the tolling knells,
The sick and dying cumbering the ways
With none to aid, the still, deserted streets,
The sullen silence echoing cries of pain
From the blind, close-shut dwellings, smote on him
With a strange pity, and he hastened on.
And when he asked of one who fled, what ill
Befell the town, "The plague!" he cried, "the plague!
Fly too, or thou art doomed." But he who heard,
Without a moment's doubt, filled with great ruth
And eagerness, pressed onward, as a player
Who knows and loves his part, and round his feet
Dread signs of death and suffering everywhere
Grew thicker, till at length he gained the gate
Of the great hospice, thronged from floor to roof
With hopeless pain. Then, in an ecstasy,
He entered, and besought that he might serve;
And they consenting, he, with fervent prayer
And great compassion, and the finer skill
Which Faith can breed, and comfortable words,
And signing with the Cross where'er he came,
Heartened those helpless sufferers in such sort
That many, whom now the instant might of Death
Held in its grasp, escaped; and presently,
The fierce infection waning, all the land
Revered the youth, so young, so beautiful,
So fearless and devoted, and they grew
To hold him more than man, till to their thought
He showed as 'twere an angel sent from Heaven
To bid them live.
Thence fared he through the land
Of the Romagna. There by field and town
Was pestilence, and he was in the midst,
Dauntless amid the harm, tending the sick,
Himself unscathed. And thence to Rome herself,
Where too was plague; there three long years he wrought
'Mid scenes of death and pain, tending the sick,
Always unscathed, and wheresoe'er he went
Ablessing went with him upon his work.

Yet one incessant prayer his faithful lips
Would breathe to Heaven, if only he might earn
The martyr's palm: but never at all there came
An answer to his prayer, nor could he die,
Nor be at rest, for God had need of him.

Thus, year by year, from town to suffering town
He journeyed, still unscathed, rapt by good works
Of mercy. At the last his footsteps came
To fair Piacenza, where a dreadful ill
Consumed the people. There long time he served,
Tending the sick. There, too, a blessing came
Upon his work, till one sad night he sank,
O'ercome by toil and watching, on the ground;
And when he woke, a burning fever raged
Through every vein, and on his breast, behold,
A horrible tumour. Then, because his pain
Had grown too great for silence, and he feared
To wake the suffering sleepers, he crawled forth
And laid him down to die; and when the guard,
Fearing the plague, constrained him, slowly crept,
Tottering in pain, upon his pilgrim's staff,
Beyond the city gates, to a thick wood
Where no man came, and there prepared to die.

But not yet came his Fate, for some poor hind
Succoured him, and would dress his wound and bring
His daily food, or, as some tell, there came
A bright angelic form to comfort him,
And he was healed; and when his strength returned,
Exulting in his soul that he was found
Worthy to suffer for his Lord, and filled
With holy pride, he rose and took his way
Across the swelling Apennines, the plains,
The Alpine snows, clad in his pilgrim's garb,
A worn and weary man, bent by long toil
And wan from mortal sickness, till he gained
His own fair native land; and to a town
Which was his own, and all the country folk
His vassals born, he came, so changed and bent
By long and suffering years, no living eye
Knew him, and 'midst the people who were his
The pilgrim walked unknown who was their lord.

And he, because he scorned to take again
His lordly rank, but rather chose to be
In great humility and serve unknown
The suffering race of men, would speak no word
Of recognition, but, a stranger still,
Passed through the country side, nor claimed his own,
Loving the saintly poverty which brought
His soul to God, and set him free to move
Lowly amongst the lowly, doing good.

Then, since great strifes and bitter jealousies
Vexed all the country side, the folk who deemed
His pilgrim's robe no other than a cloak
To hide the traitor, haled him to the judge,
His father's brother. No defensive word
He spoke, nor knew his kinsman, whom he doomed
To lifelong prison. And the pilgrim, glad
Of salutary pain, and holding all
Was of God's will -- the judge's ignorance
Of his own blood, and all his punishment --
Kept silence till the end, and to his cell
And chains went silently, who for a word
Had been set free with honour. There he pined,
In a close dungeon pent, long weary years,
Leaving his fate to Heaven.
And when his hour
Was come, the jailor, taking to his cell
His bread and water, found the prisoner lie
Dead on his pallet, and around his head
And from his wasted face a glory shone
Which lit the gloom, and by his side a scroll,
Writ by what hand none knew: "Whoever dreads
The pestilence that stalketh through the night
Shall seek the intercession of the saint
Who lies here dead -- Roch, Lord of Languedoc.

Then in a moment, looking on the face
Of the worn pilgrim-prisoner dead and cold,
They knew again the ardent, generous youth
Who, gay with robes of price and gems and gold,
In the first bloom of manhood, beamed on them
And gave up all for Heaven, and tender ruth
For dim afflicted lives whom the hard fate
Of hopeless sickness took. And so their eyes
Were opened, and the judge, his kinsman, wept
His hapless fate, stricken with a deep remorse
For what had been; and, touched with vain regret,
His vassals laid him in a costly tomb
With tears and lamentations; and they thought
That from the sacred relics of the dead,
As when he lived, there went a virtue forth
In plague and sickness, so that still he seemed
To heal them.
And when now a century passed,
The strong sons of the Mistress of the seas,
Who languished oft beneath the dreadful scourge
The seething Orient bred, sailed out and snatched
His sacred dust, and forth, with pious care
And honour, all the fairy city came
To meet them; and above him, presently,
They reared a church in honour of the saint
San Rocco, and a pitiful Brotherhood,
Named by his name, to aid the poor and sick,
Wherein the proudest noble joyed to serve --
The Scuola di San Rocco, -- and a house
Stately as any which the enchanted sea
Exhales in dreaming Venice. There the skill
Of Tintoretto and his scholars limned
On wall and ceiling stories of our Lord,
His Death, and his Ascension to the skies,
With lavish hand, so that it glows today
A miracle of Art, which fitly frames
A statue of the saint; and there he stands,
As stands his soul, among the heavenly host,
In honour now, who died a prisoner here."





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