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(III)
(1848)
NOW I heard | |
| Fra Ugo Bassi preach. For though in Rome | |
| He held no public ministry this year, | |
| On Sundays in the hospital he took | |
| His turn in preaching, at the service held | 5 |
| Where five long chambers, lined with suffering folk, | |
| Converged, and in the midst an altar stood, | |
| By which on feast-days stood the priest, and spoke, | |
| And I remember how, one day in March, | |
| When all the air was thrilling with the spring, | 10 |
| And even the sick people in their beds | |
| Felt, though they could not see it, he stood there; | |
| Looking down all the lines of weary life, | |
| Still for a little under the sweet voice, | |
| And spoke this sermon to them, tenderly, | 15 |
| As it was written down by one who heard: | |
| “I am the True Vine,” said our Lord, and Ye, | |
| “My Brethren, are the Branches;” and that Vine, | |
| Then first uplifted in its place, and hung | |
| With its first purple grapes, since then has grown, | 20 |
| Until its green leaves gladden half the world, | |
| And from its countless clusters rivers flow | |
| For healing of the nations, and its boughs | |
| Innumerable stretch through all the earth, | |
| Ever increasing, ever each entwined | 25 |
| With each, all living from the Central Heart. | |
| And you and I, my brethren, live and grow, | |
| Branches of that immortal human Stem. | |
| |
| Let us consider now this life of the Vine, | |
| Whereof we are partakers: we shall see | 30 |
| Its way is not of pleasure nor of ease. | |
| It groweth not like the wild trailing weeds | |
| Whither it willeth, flowering here and there; | |
| Or lifting up proud blossoms to the sun, | |
| Kissed by the butterflies, and glad for life, | 35 |
| And glorious in their beautiful array; | |
| Or running into lovely labyrinths | |
| Of many forms and many fantasies, | |
| Rejoicing in its own luxuriant life. | |
| |
| The Flower of the Vine is but a little thing, | 40 |
| The least part of its life;—you scarce could tell | |
| It ever had a flower; the fruit begins | |
| Almost before the flower has had its day. | |
| And as it grows, it is not free to heaven, | |
| But tied to a stake; and if its arms stretch out, | 45 |
| It is but crosswise, also forced and bound; | |
| And so it draws out of the hard hill-side, | |
| Fixed in its own place, its own food of life; | |
| And quickens with it, breaking forth in bud, | |
| Joyous and green, and exquisite of form, | 50 |
| Wreathed lightly into tendril, leaf, and bloom. | |
| Yea, the grace of the green vine makes all the land | |
| Lovely in spring-time; and it still grows on | |
| Faster, in lavishness of its own life; | |
| Till the fair shoots begin to wind and wave | 55 |
| In the blue air, and feel how sweet it is. | |
| But so they leave it not: the husbandman | |
| Comes early, with the pruning-hooks and shears, | |
| And strips it bare of all its innocent pride, | |
| And wandering garlands, and cuts deep and sure, | 60 |
| Unsparing for its tenderness and joy. | |
| And in its loss and pain it wasteth not; | |
| But yields itself with unabated life, | |
| More perfect under the despoiling hand. | |
| The bleeding limbs are hardened into wood; | 65 |
| The thinned-out bunches ripen into fruit | |
| More full and precious, to the purple prime. | |
| |
| And still, the more it grows, the straitlier bound | |
| Are all its branches; and as rounds the fruit, | |
| And the heart’s crimson comes to show in it, | 70 |
| And it advances to its hour,—its leaves | |
| Begin to droop and wither in the sun; | |
| But still the life-blood flows, and does not fail, | |
| All into faithfulness, all into form. | |
| |
| Then comes the vintage, for the days are ripe, | 75 |
| And surely now in its perfected bloom, | |
| It may rejoice a little in its crown, | |
| Though it bend low beneath the weight of it, | |
| Wrought out of the long striving of its heart. | |
| But ah! the hands are ready to tear down | 80 |
| The treasures of the grapes; the feet are there | |
| To tread them in the winepress, gathered in; | |
| Until the blood-red rivers of the wine | |
| Run over, and the land is full of joy. | |
| But the vine standeth stripped and desolate, | 85 |
| Having given all; and now its own dark time | |
| Is come, and no man payeth back to it | |
| The comfort and the glory of its gift; | |
| But rather, now most merciless, all pain | |
| And loss are piled together, as its days | 90 |
| Decline, and the spring sap has ceased to flow | |
| Now is it cut back to the very stem; | |
| Despoiled, disfigured, left a leafless stock, | |
| Alone through all the dark days that shall come. | |
| And all the winter-time the wine gives joy | 95 |
| To those who else were dismal in the cold; | |
| But the vine standeth out amid the frost; | |
| And after all, hath only this grace left, | |
| That it endures in long, lone steadfastness | |
| The winter through:—and next year blooms again; | 100 |
| Not bitter for the torment undergone, | |
| Not barren for the fulness yielded up; | |
| As fair and fruitful towards the sacrifice, | |
| As if no touch had ever come to it, | |
| But the soft airs of heaven and dews of earth;— | 105 |
| And so fulfils itself in love once more. | |
| |
| And now, what more shall I say? Do I need here | |
| To draw the lesson of this life; or say | |
| More than these few words, following up the text:— | |
| The Vine from every living limb bleeds wine; | 110 |
| Is it the poorer for that spirit shed? | |
| The drunkard and the wanton drink thereof; | |
| Are they the richer for that gift’s excess? | |
| Measure thy life by loss instead of gain; | |
| Not by the wine drunk, but the wine poured forth; | 115 |
| For love’s strength standeth in love’s sacrifice; | |
| And whoso suffers most hath most to give…. | |
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