Chapter IV: Part IV: The Vision Glorious

When Luna o’er the vault would fain hold sway
Striving the steeds of Phœbus to assay;
And he, the drifting racks with gilded spear had riven;
With ochreous steeds coursing the plain of Heaven,
Bore high aloft his flambent crimson bowl
Steering on ruddy Hesperus for goal.
And far behind his chariot’s dust did leave
That frail ætherial gleam—the Star of eve.
I, wearied with the day’s fatiguing sorrow
Called to proud Helios “Hasten thou the morrow”!
Then clapped dim eyes upon the scene around
The sullen austere hills, the humid misty ground
Sad that the spectral lances of the moon
Essayed the glowing firmament so soon.
For when tired Earth the arms of Day is leaving
For those of sterner Night, yet fondly cleaving
Still to Sunshine’s fingers, rose tipped as they lie
Aslant the woods, the valleys, ground and sky,
The heart of man,—in that calm solitude—alone
Sighs for his faded hopes now cold as stone
Weeps for his sins, hoping yet to atone
For actions past, unalterable—and done—
Performed, accomplished, finished—everyone—
Then inly prays with eager expectation
To Holy patron Saint,—for his salvation—
With some such thoughts as these, I sadly gazed
Over the moonlit garden’s scented air
And peering through the mist, I stood amazed,
For—lo! my patron Saint was standing there.
Gabled in raiment pale-azure as the sea
Of Northern climes, thus she appeared to me;
Azure and Silver, like to a frozen tear
Shed into Ocean by some arctic Mear;
Holy her features—haloed her raven hair,
Black eyebrows curving over dreaming eyes
She stood awhile in ecstacy, radiant, passing fair;
No one more lovely being beyond our earthy skies
Stirred by this hallowed mirage, my heart gave forth a cry,
“Blessed St. Bridget save me! intercede for my soul on High.”
Then came back a whispered echo over the sighing spray
“Blessed St. Bridget save me! _Ora pro me._”
Serenely the lovely vision smiled peacefully on me,
Then slowly faded into the even’s mist.
Drying my dewy eyelids I sank on bended knee,
And prayed to the One who had suffered, nailed to a torture-tree,
Whose gaping wounds poor doubting Thomas kissed.