POETRY.
A LOST LEGEND.
S. WILFRID once, aware of love grown cold, And faith but lukewarm in his northern fold, While ev'n the few who failed not to be shriven Sought less for peace than feared to forfeit Heaven, Announced for an approaching festival Tidings of infinite import to all.
And when the close-packed church expectant stood, Down from its place he threw the holy rood, Crying : "My brethren, know that Armageddon Is fought and lost! The saints of God, though led on By Michael and his angels, were o'erthrown ; And Satan occupies the heavenly throne.
All is reversed : 'tis sinners who will dwell Henceforth in Heaven, while saints must burn in Hell, Myself, alas ! too zealous have I striven On the Lord's side !—no hope for me of Heaven.
But you, my brethren, I have little doubt May yet find entrance, if you turn about.
Only be speedy, for I have sure word That Judgment-day will be no more deferred ; And Satan's hosts are on the road to bind Whomever in the house of God they find.
Go, sin while there is time Forsake the church, And leave me as your scape-goat in the lurch !"
All stared astonished ; and on many a face, Smug, smooth, and sanctimonious, a grimace Grew slowly, while the open sinner's laughter Rang loudly from the rood-loft to the rafter.
Then, swift as ants swarm from their threatened heap, Or from the opened pin-fold rush the sheep, Forth streamed the congregation, thick and fast, Each only fearing to be found the last.
The church was empty, and St. Wilfrid stood, Most grimly smiling, by the fallen rood ; When in a darkened corner he was ware Of some one kneeling, and a sobbing prayer : "0 dear Lord Jesu ! I have followed Thee So long, and Thou has loved me. Let me be Where Thou art, Jean! Rather will I dwell Than with Thy foes in Heaven with Thee in Hell !"" Then cried St. Wilfrid : "Blessed be thy name, Woman, that puttest my weak faith to shame!
I thought but to convict the careless herd Of vain religion by an empty word.
But now of thine example will I make A lesson that all sinners' souls shall wake, All saints' rekindle; and that word of thine Shall to the world in golden letters shine."
He stepped towards the woman : the white head Lay on the withered hands : she knelt there, dead.
F. W. BOURDILLON..
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