Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SAN CARLOS DEL CARMELO, by AMELIA WOODWARD TRUESDELL



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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SAN CARLOS DEL CARMELO, by                    
First Line: Pause upon the gentle hillside, view san carlos by the / sea
Last Line: Desolation is about them—sun and storm upon them beat.
Subject(s): Clergy; Missions & Missionaries; Priests; Rabbis; Ministers; Bishops


Pause upon the gentle hillside, view San Cárlos by the sea,—
'Gainst pale light a shape Morisco wrought in faded tapestry.

'Neath Mt. Carmel's brooding shadow, peaceful lies the storied pile,
And the white-barred river near it sings a requiem all the while.

Why was name, to Christian precious, found within this lonely place,
Borne by stream which mirrored only swarthy brow or deer's shy grace?

Band of friars Carmelite, came with Viscaino long before,
Salves chanting to their Lady by this far and fabled shore;

And their name on stream and mountain brightened all the unblessed place,
As the mem'ry of a sweet smile lightens up a sombre face.

Now remains of many labors by the loyal sons of Spain,
Not a tropic leaf reminding of the Andalusian plain.

Where were roofs of tiles or thatches, roughest mounds mark every side,
And where once the busy court-yard, searching winds find crevice wide.

Gone all trace of padres' dwelling, and 'midst ruin yet remains
But the church front in its beauty, arabesqued with winter stains;

High two Moorish belfry towers lift the sign of Calvary,
Tell the deep-worn steps ascending oft their sweet bells woke the sea.

O'er the door a star embrasured tells the tale of Bethlehem,
Far more eloquent to Indian than the priestly apothegm.

See from 'neath the low carved doorway flowers blossom through the nave,
O'er debris from roof and pillars heaped upon the square tiled pave.

Where were altars, wild doves twitter—o'er them drops the roof away;
Where burnt type of Real Presence, sunshine streams this many a day.

Softly tread the sanctuary, where the reverend sleepers lie,
'Neath the spot where oft they lifted sacrificial Host on high.

Guards them there an earnest priest who deems their shrine a sacred trust—
He whose search in musty volumes found what place held Serra's dust.

Yearly here the Indians gather on San Cárlos holy day;
Sad memorial to the man who would have died for such as they.

Weirdly echo their responses for the saint they do not know;
But they know their hopes are broken, and that Serra lies below.

And they tremble when they tell you that at midnight of that day
Will arise their buried kindred in a ghostly dumb array;

Round the ruin in procession with their torches white and still,
Passing through the shadowy doorway from their graves beneath the hill;

And that Serra, like a god, although his burial stone moves not,
Will lead them in mass majestic on the drear but hallowed spot;

With strange aspergill will scatter o'er their forms a phantom spray,
While Crespí will swing the censer through air unpulsed by its sway;

And the altar's spectral tapers will gleam on their faces white,
And the Crucifix' soft splendor fill the dark nave with its light;

Hoarse will sob the surf responsive, moan the wind in minor strain,
Mingling with the faint far echoes, some celestial choir's refrain;

Night winds will not stir the garments of the kneelers on the ground,
To the voiceless Pax Vobiscum, lips will answer without sound;

And will cross the brows unearthly, hands which leave no shadow there,
As the forms and lights phantasmal melt into the midnight air.

Such the shadow thrown upon the Campos Santos 'neath the hill,
Where the rulers of the young land many graves unnoticed fill.

At this Mission long dwelt Serra—padre of the padres he;
Hence o'er hill and desert went he through his apostolic see.

Thence returning worked he humbly with the Indians while he taught,
Bearing burdens as St. Francis when at Damian he wrought.

Showed he, too, by dread example—torches to his flesh applied,
Beaten breast with stones and scourges—woes for those who godless died.

Told he mass at shrine most humble, not within the walls we see;
'Neath a low, thatched roof uncomely, served he altar ministry.

And when fell upon his brow a shadow from the farther land,
Thitherward turned he all gladly, lifting patient, longing hand;

Seeing naught 'midst heaven's glories his pure spirit more besought
Than a "grander gift of prayer," for poor souls for whom he wrought.

When from self-imposed retreat he came forth to the sacrament,
Rung his Salutaris Hostia, though his form with weakness bent;

Rose his Tantum Sacramentum in a tone that mocked all pain,
While the voice of priests and kneelers died in tears at the refrain;

Laid he then tired head in rapture on the breast of mother earth—
Dumb bequest of his poor body to the heart that gave it birth,—

Chill embrace which he felt not, Faith's glowing robe was round him cast;
Proved he true to poverty and to St. Francis to the last.

Bore the waiting ones his spirit, and their anthem's joyous swell
Mingled with the notes funereal of the solemn passing bell.

And the boom of dreary cannon told above the moaning sea
How the earth had lost a soldier and The Church a devotee.

And the angel voices answered that The Church in heaven had found
One whose welcome should re-echo through the welkin's farthest bound.

And they laid him by Crespí, the friend whose toils were sooner o'er.
At the feet of Dolorosa and beneath the chancel floor.

Lie their crypts in desolation—sun and storm upon them beat;
Desolation is about them—sun and storm upon them beat.





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