O Friend, thy brow is overcast; but haply for thy grief, Though all untold, a spell I hold to work a swift relief,-- A hallowed spell;--no rites we need that shun the light, Thy taper trim; for we must read some dark old words to-night. For I will, shall I?--from their graves call up the holy dead, More mighty than the living oft such soul as thine to aid. From Fear and Woe, through fears and woes like thine, they won release, And through our still confronting foes once fought their way to peace. 'Twixt woe and weal, a balm to heal our every wound they found, An outlet for each pool of strife, that whirls us round and round. And if perhaps their childish time discerned not all aright,-- While Fancy her stained windows reared between them and the light,-- That in these clearer latter days 'tis given to thee to know, Then seek the spirit they received, and bid the letter go. Thy heart unto its Lord unlock; and shut thy closet's door. The holy water of thy tears drop on the quiet floor. Unclasp the old brown tome. The walls no more are seen. The page I read; and we are backward borne far in a bygone age. The spell hath wrought. To take us in, a tower and bower advance Where grows upon our steadfast gaze the royal saint of France. The bower full well a hermit's cell--with hourglass and with skull-- Might seem,--the hangings woven all of rocks and mosses full. The floor is thick with rushes strown. Some resting place is there Worn,--as amid the rushy marsh by stag that made his lair,-- Worn just beneath yon carven form, that bends in pain and love, As if to bless, from its high place, and almost seems to move, While round it in the wind of night the arras swells and swings,-- The viceroy's of the universe, son of the King of kings. For Louis loves to leave his court, and lay aside his crown, And to a mightier Prince than he to bow in homage down. In this great presence learns the king peace, truth, and lowlihead; Here learns the saint the majesty no earthly power to dread. But now the king's mute voice it rings, and through the shades doth call: 'Ho, Sire de Jonville, come to me, my doughty seneschal!' The rafters feel the tramp of steel; and by the monarch stand Again the feet that by him stood far in the Holy Land. 'O Sire de Jonville,' to his friend and servant Louis saith, 'Hold fast and firmly to the end the jewel of thy faith. Strong faith's the key of heaven; and once an abbot taught to me, If will is good, though faith is weak, shall faith accepted be. This tale he told[11]: