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Poem by Bessie Rayner Parkes The Curé of Ploërmel JUST ere the stroke of midnight fell, The ancient priest of Ploërmel Sat by his fire one Christmas night. Still as the grave the frosty air,— His lips were murmuring a prayer, The while his heart was softly moved With thoughts of many a youth he loved In college days, at peaceful Vannes, Beside the Sea of Morbihan. Now some were old and far away, And some had spent their little day In wondrous Paris on the Seine; And some amidst the stormy main Which sweeps round Brittany were lost; Thinking of such, his brow he crossed, And bowed the head whose locks were white. Sudden, amidst the hush profound, The far faint echo of a sound, Stole to his ear; ’t was such as springs From the slow beat of countless wings, Or rustle of a multitude That softly pace a moss-grown wood. Noiseless he crossed his earthen floor, And looked into the silvery light Along the road which passed his door, And saw—a strange and awful sight! Far as his aged eyes could reach, With sound of neither tread nor speech, Stretched the long files of gray and white. All silent in the moonshine went Each cloaked and hooded penitent, Bearing a torch which burnt upright. The trembling Curé made the Sign, Each phantom bent in grave incline, As when that wind of summer sweet Bows all the rippling rants of wheat! The foremost, as he passed the door, Motioned the Curé on before, Who mute obeyed; some ghostly spell Moved the good priest of Ploërmel. And so the mighty multitude, Across the moor and through the wood, Followed, yet guided him, until His feet by that same spell stood still Before the open porch, which yet In a long roofless wall was set. The ruined church was one which long Had only heard the night bird’s song, But still the altar-steps were there, And a wild rose in festoons fair Graced it in summer; now the fern And ivy draped it in their turn. Then all that mighty multitude Within the vast enclosure stood, The moonlight on their garments shone, And still their torches burned; whilst one Mounted the mossy steps, and took Stained vestments and an ancient book, And old chased chalice from the stone. With silent awe the saintly priest Robed for the wonted Christmas feast; And every shrouded penitent, On humble knees devoutly bent. One served the Mass, and all intent Responded with the mystic tone Of winds and waves together blent. But when he raised the sacred Host The vague, uncertain tone was lost In sweetest music of the upper spheres; And when the Curé raised his hand and blest The kneeling flock, with Ite, missa est, The shrouded penitents were seen to softly rise Like a white shining cloud to his astonished eyes; And ere the last sweet gospel words were done, The nave was empty,—the good priest alone Invoked the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; While from the distant skies a heavenly host Of souls, set free from purgatorial pain, Sang, as they took their flight, the sweet refrain, “Hath been, is now, and evermore shall be, World without end! Amen!” Bessie Rayner Parkes Bessie Rayner Parkes's other poems: 1240 Views |
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