JOHN OF PADUA duly came, | |
| A grave wise man with a dark pale face, | |
| He sat him down with a pondering brow, | |
| And rule and compass to plan and trace | |
| Each door and window, and terrace and wall, | 5 |
| And the tower that should rise to crown them all. | |
| |
| Ha! many a summer sunrise found | |
| Wise John at his great and patient toil, | |
| At his squares and circles, and legends and lines, | |
| And many a night he burnt the oil, | 10 |
| Till the house with its pillared porch began | |
| To slowly grow in the brain of that man. | |
| |
| Long lines of sunny southern wall, | |
| With mullioned windows, row on row, | |
| And balustrades, and parapets, | 15 |
| Where the western wind should wildly blow; | |
| And cresting all the vanes, to burn | |
| And glisten over miles of fern. | |
| |
| When thirteen Junes had burnt away, | |
| The house arose as out of a dream: | 20 |
| Wide and stately, and tall and fair, | |
| With windows to catch the sunset gleam; | |
| Fifteen fair miles of subject lands | |
| Girdle it round where it proudly stands. | |
| |
| Two hundred feet of western front, | 25 |
| And chapel and turret, and acres of roof, | |
| And porch, and staircase, and welcoming hall, | |
| And gate that would keep no beggar aloof; | |
| Three kings had died since it began, | |
| And John had grown old and pale and wan. | 30 |
| |
| One day the builder smiling sat, | |
| His red-lined parchments slowly rolled, | |
| His work was ended,—the night had come,— | |
| He bound and numbered them, fold by fold; | |
| And sat as gravely in the sun, | 35 |
| As if his toil had scarce begun. | |
| |
| Yes, there his life’s work stately stood, | |
| With its shining acres of beaten lead, | |
| Its glittering windows, row on row, | |
| That centuries hence, when he was dead, | 40 |
| Should shine as they were shining then,— | |
| A landmark unto other men. | |
| |
| And there were the long white terraces, | |
| And the great wide porch, like an open hand | |
| Stretched out to welcome, and the tower | 45 |
| That rose like a fountain o’er the land; | |
| And the great elms bosoming round the walls, | |
| The singing-birds’ green citadels. | |
| |
| They found him there when daybreak came, | |
| In the selfsame posture, selfsame place, | 50 |
| But the plans had dropped from his thin wan hands, | |
| A frozen smile was on his face; | |
| And when they spoke no word he said, | |
| For John of Padua sat there—dead! | |
| |
