Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
Spain, Portugal, Belgium, and Holland: Vols. XIV–XV. 1876–79.
The Devotee
By Johann Ludwig Uhland (17871862)M
Lies a consecrated place,
Where the blessed Virgin Mother
Lavishes her stores of grace.
There for every wayworn wanderer
Gleams a friendly guiding star;
There a peaceful port is open
To the seaman, wrecked afar.
Vales and mountains echo round;
From the cities, from the cloisters,
All the bells send back the sound.
Then each angry, bursting billow
Sinks and dies along the shore,
And the boatman whispers, “Avé!”
Kneeling, with suspended oar.
Sees the Virgin heavenward soar,
There to meet, revealed in glory,
Him, the suffering Son she bore,—
Round her shrine, that festive morning,
Wonders manifold appear;
They who gaze on that bright image
Feel a holier presence near.
Through the fields are on their way;
Ships and boats, with painted streamers
Gayly fluttering, line the bay.
Up the rocky pathway climbing,
Rich-clad pilgrims wind along,
Till the mountain seems a ladder
Bearing up to heaven the throng.
Coarse-clad devotees are there,
Each with wan and wasted features,
Wrinkled hands and withered hair.
’Mongst the faithful in the temple
These may never linger more,
Ne’er again behold the altar,—
They must kneel without the door.
From his eye gleams wild despair;
In the breeze his white locks flutter,
Thinned with sorrow, age, and care.
From his wasted, trembling body
Hangs a black and galling chain;
Round each limb an iron fetter
Grinds the flesh with rending pain.
Once a brother’s blood to spill,
Took the sword, and while ’t was reeking,
Forged the chain that binds him still.
Homeless, hopeless, now he wanders,—
Seeks for peace, but seeks in vain;
Grace alone, a wonder working,
Can unbind the galling chain.
And, with naked, bony feet,
Wander day and night, but never
Find that peace, to man so sweet!
Not a saint looks down in pity,
When he shrieks his nightly prayer;
Not a shrine of heavenly mercy
Answers to his wild despair.
Near the door behold him now,
While the evening bell is tolling,
And the crowds in silence bow.
How he yearns the halls to enter,
Where the Virgin’s image gleams,
As the western sun, descending,
Through each rich-stained window beams!
Rests on meadow, sky, and shore!
Say, when heaven received the Virgin,
Closed she not the golden door?
Where yon rosy clouds are floating
Trace we still her path on high?
In the deep and tranquil azure
Mark we still her beaming eye?
One still lingers at the place,
Prostrate on the threshold lying,
With a pale and ashen face.
Rusty chains still fast around him,
There his quivering body lies;
But his soul, now free forever,
Floats in glory through the skies!