Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE GARDENER OF SINOPE, by AGNES MARY F. ROBINSON Poet's Biography First Line: Where loud the pontine billows roar Last Line: Two claimed a murderer's reward. Alternate Author Name(s): Duclaux, Madame Emile; Darmesteter, Mary; Robinson, A. Mary F. Subject(s): Gardens & Gardening; Murder | ||||||||
WHERE loud the Pontine billows roar And lash the Paphlagonian shore; Where first the yellow stretch of sands Breaks into green and waving sheen Of growing corn and meadow lands; There, nestling grass and sea between, The little town Sinope stands. A mile beyond the western gate, One garden broke the desolate Waste reach of wind-swept, briny shore -- A garden always green and fair With companies of roses there, And lilies maiden-white and tall. And in that place there dwelt of yore Phocas, an aged gardener. He had his house within the wall, And rarely left the garden space, Saving to do some deed of grace; Little he spoke, and, if at all, Mere words of greeting and farewell; Yet any looking on his face Would need no second glance to tell How great a soul lay secret there, And in his voice there rang a spell Of consolation and of prayer; And all who knew him loved him well. The people loved him. But the hearts Of tyrants have no sense of love, Their natures keep no pulse thereof. Yet have they passions in their blood: Sharp fears, suspicion, and the smarts Of pride misprised, and subtle darts Of envy, petty malices, And mean revenges born of these That breed and breed, a deadly brood.... So when it chanced the governor Of all those Paphlagonian lands, Came once along the windy shore To bless some Temple in the sands, And heard how Phocas took his ease At home on feasts and holidays. Heeding no gods or goddesses, As giving neither blame or praise To priest or vestal -- but instead Worked in his garden, prayed, or read, Tended the sick, buried the dead, And, though he never sacrificed To any god in heaven or hell, Made all his life acceptable To one dead man, a criminal, Christ -- The governor, hearing of these things, Hated this gardener; for a life With love and prayer for soaring wings, And scented through with innocent flowers, Was sore rebuke to his own hours With cunning, lust and malice rife. So, having found where Phocas dwelt, The lowliest of Christ's followers, He hired two privy murderers, Who often in such times as these Have rid him of his enemies; And, having bade them go, he felt Merry, and supped and slept at ease. The two hired murderers went their way That night, towards the quiet place Where Phocas dwelt. Yet had not they Gone half a furlong from the gate, Along the woody, desolate, Wild country, when the open space Grew thick with storm and white with hail, Rain that the wind rent as a veil, And lightning, till the thunder drowned Their voices, crying as they found The flooding sea at their feet. Aghast They stumbled, harried by the blast, Torn by the hail, half blind with fire, Weary with baffling waves that higher And colder crept at their knees. And still The storm raged on and did not tire, The storm raged on and knew no law. At last, half dead with fear, they saw Far off, dim shining on the hill, A light that was no levin-light, Steadier far and far less bright; And, carrying it, an ancient man Walked slowly towards them. As he came The spent storm slackened, and the flame Faded. "'Tis Zeus, our guardian!" Said one; the other cried, "All hail, Poseidon, ruler of seas!" But he They spoke to merely smiled, and said Half sighing, "Much these gods avail! Come to my house, for verily Ye have great need of rest and bread." And, turning up the hill with them, He led them through a pleasant field Of yellowing corn, until they came To a wide garden full of grass And flowering shrubs, and trees that yield Sweet fruit for eating, and a plot Of summer flowers among them was Where, past the garden, stood a cot Of wattles, with a fountain nigh; And, entering in, the weary men Sank down in anguish, like to die. But Phocas spread fresh rushes then And let them on the rushes lie, And gave them bread and fruit to eat With wine for drinking, clear and sweet. And when at last they sank to sleep, Buried in slumber sound and deep, The gardener rose and left the house And stood beneath his apple-trees, And watched the planets in the boughs Like heavenly fruit, and felt the breeze Breathe on him; somewhere out of sight The thyme smelt, where his slow feet trod Along the grass; all round the night Compassed him like the love of God. Then Phocas slept not, but he dreamed. All round him was a stir of wings And raiment and soft feet it seemed; A shine and music of heavenly things; A light of faces, a shimmer of hair, And heavenly maidens round him there. Dorothy, crowned with roses, stooped To pluck a rose from his red-rose tree; White-rose Cecily, where there drooped A snowy rosebud, tenderly Laid it inside her music book. Then Agnes took an olive bough And bound it crown-wise round her brow, While Margaret all the rest forsook For daisies in the grass to look. Our Lady Mary herself came down To gather lilies for a crown And sent her angel-messenger Where Phocas, all bewildered, was. Thus spake he to the gardener: "All the flowers thy garden has That be chiefly sweet and fair Gather them to make a wreath, Many a fragrant wreath and rare, To bring with thee to Paradise -- " Then all they vanished from his eyes And Phocas felt the dark like Death -- Thereupon he took his spade And underneath the pleasant shade Of apple boughs a grave he made. When his gravemaking was done There was some time till rise of sun, Till then he walked amid his flowers, The friends of many summer hours, And bade farewell to every one. And from all his flowers he chose Bluest violet, reddest rose, Peonies and Aaron-rod, Pinks and wallflowers, columbines, Ferns and tendrils of wild vines, And lilies for the mother of God. And having chosen and woven them To many a wreath and anadem, He laid them in the grave, and went Back to his house, at peace, content. But when he entered at the door A pang ran through his heart, because He knew so well the roof, the floor, The home-made walls, the little flaws In workmanship, the friendly air Of all the things that made him there A home more dear than palaces; For the last time he saw all these. He checked the sigh; spread on the board Of meat and wine his slender hoard, And roused his sleeping guests, who lay Still on the mat at break of day. They, being aroused, fell to and eat Amain and drank right thirstily The rustic feast before them set And Phocas went and brought them fruit, Honey, and cakes of wheat to boot. And, when at last their feasting ends, He saith: "I fain would ask ye, friends, What errand took ye on the road That only leads to my abode?" The younger guest laughed out -- "Not you -- Not to seek such as you we came, But some foul Christian -- what's his name? -- May Charon take him and his crew!" "Nay, friend (the elder said), we bore A message from the governor To one called Phocas. Know ye him?" Then before Phocas day grew dim And Death came surging in his ears Because the worst of all his fears Grew plain before him. Quietly He rose and answered: "I am he!" "By Zeus, the god of strangers, then," Shouted the younger of the men, "Get hence, and quickly, I pray you, fly!" The elder said -- "What, overbold, Thou knowest well that thou and I Must answer for him? Let him die! Better he than us, for he is old..." Whereat the younger said, "Outside Last night in the cold we had surely died, But that this gardener succoured us. I will not slay him." "Yet for us" (The elder spake) "the dreadful night And cruel storm and lightning bright Were safer than our ruler's hate." Here Phocas answered, "Do not wait, But make an end, and quickly. I Have God's sure warrant I shall die. Slay me and fear not. Know that death Gives all life only promiseth; No Christian fears to die. But this I ask you: lay me in the grave Outside, where the apple-orchard is. Now make an end; I pardon you. O Christ, my Saviour, I pray Thee, save These men that know not what they do." Then Phocas led them to the shade Of apple boughs, and on the sward Awhile he knelt. The younger prayed And wept; the elder drew his sword, Struck at the reverent, bowed head Once, twice, and Phocas lay there dead. 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