Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14.djvu/206

196 To those dim alcoves, far withdrawn,

He turned with measured steps and slow,

Trimming his lantern as he went;

And there, among the shadows, bent

Above one ponderous folio,

With whose miraculous text were blent

Seraphic faces: Angels, crowned

With rings of melting amethyst;

Mute, patient Martyrs, cruelly bound

To blazing fagots; here and there,

Some bold, serene Evangelist,

Or Mary in her sunny hair:

And here and there from out the words

A brilliant tropic bird took flight;

And through the margins many a vine

Went wandering—roses, red and white,

Tulip, wind-flower, and columbine

Blossomed. To his believing mind

These things were real, and the soft wind,

Blown through the mullioned window, took

Scent from the lilies in the book.

"Santa Maria!" cried Friar Jerome,

"Whatever man illumined this,

Though he were steeped heart-deep in sin,

Was worthy of unending bliss,

And no doubt hath it! Ah! dear Lord,

Might I so beautify Thy Word!

What sacristan, the convents through,

Transcribes with such precision? who

Does such initials as I do?

Lo! I will gird me to this work,

And save me, ere the one chance slips.

On smooth, clean parchment I 'll engross

The Prophet's fell Apocalypse;

And as I write from day to day,

Perchance my sins will pass away."

So Friar Jerome began his Book.

From break of dawn till curfew-chime

He bent above the lengthening page,

Like some rapt poet o'er his rhyme.

He scarcely paused to tell his beads,

Except at night; and then he lay

And tossed, unrestful, on the straw,

Impatient for the coming day,—

Working like one who feels, perchance,

That, ere the longed-for goal be won,

Ere Beauty bare her perfect breast,

Black Death may pluck him from the sun.

At intervals the busy brook,