A Legend of Cologne

Above the bones     St. Ursula owns,     And those of the virgins she chaperons;     Above the boats,     And the bridge that floats,     And the Rhine and the steamers smoky throats;     Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs,     Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs;     Above Newmarkets open space,     Above that consecrated place     Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are,     And the dozen shops of the real Farina;     Higher than even old Hohestrasse,     Whose houses threaten the timid passer,     Above them all,     Through scaffolds tall,     And spires like delicate limbs in splinters,     The great Colognes     Cathedral stones     Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters.     Unfinished there,     In high mid-air     The towers halt like a broken prayer;     Through years belated,     Unconsummated,     The hope of its architect quite frustrated.     Its very youth     They say, forsooth,     With a quite improper purpose mated;     And every stone     With a curse of its own     Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated,     Since the day its choir,     Which all admire,     By Colognes Archbishop was consecrated.     Ah! That was a day,     One well might say,     To be marked with the largest, whitest stone     To be found in the towers of all Cologne!     Along the Rhine,     From old Rheinstein,     The people flowed like their own good wine.     From Rudesheim,     And Geisenheim,     And every spot that is known to rhyme;     From the famed Cats Castle of St. Goarshausen,     To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen,     And down the track,     From quaint Schwalbach     To the clustering tiles of Bacharach;     From Bingen, hence     To old Coblentz:     From every castellated crag,     Where the robber chieftains kept their swag,     The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel     Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal;     And pouring in from near and far,     As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr,     Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel,     So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel,     Choked up the citys gates with men     From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen.     What had they come to see? Ah me!     I fear no glitter of pageantry,     Nor sacred zeal     For Churchs weal,     Nor faith in the virgins bones to heal;     Nor childlike trust in frank confession     Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression,     Still in each nest     On every crest     Kept stolen goods in their possession;     But only their gout     For something new,     More rare than the roast of a wandering Jew;     Or to be exact     To see in fact     A Christian soul, in the very act     Of being damned, secundum artem,     By the devil, before a soul could part em.     For a rumor had flown     Throughout Cologne     That the church, in fact, was the devils own;     That its architect     (Being long suspect)     Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked     Not only his own soul, but had lost     The very first christian soul that crossed     The sacred threshold: and all, in fine,     For that very beautiful design     Of the wonderful choir     They were pleased to admire.     And really, he must be allowed to say     To speak in a purely business way     That, taking the ruling market prices     Of souls and churches, in such a crisis     It would be shown     And his Grace must own     It was really a bargain for Cologne!     Such was the tale     That turned cheeks pale     With the thought that the enemy might prevail,     And the church doors snap     With a thunderclap     On a Christian soul in that devils trap.     But a wiser few,     Who thought that they knew     Colognes Archbishop, replied, Pooh, pooh!     Just watch him and wait,     And as sure as fate,     Youll find that the Bishop will give checkmate.     One here might note     How the popular vote,     As shown in all legends and anecdote,     Declares that a breach     Of trust to oerreach     The devil is something quite proper for each.     And, really, if you     Give the devil his due     In spite of the proverb its something youll rue.     But to lie and deceive him,     To use and to leave him,     From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him,     Though no one has heard     It ever averred     That the Father of Lies ever yet broke his word,     But has left this position,     In every tradition,     To be taken alone by the truth-loving Christian!     Bom! from the tower!     It is the hour!     The host pours in, in its pomp and power     Of banners and pyx,     And high crucifix,     And crosiers and other processional sticks,     And no end of Marys     In quaint reliquaries,     To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries;     And an Osculum Pacis     (A myth to the masses     Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses)     All borne by the throng     Who are marching along     To the square of the Dom with processional song,     With the flaring of dips,     And bending of hips,     And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips;     And some good little boys     Who had come up from Neuss     And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice:     All march to the square     Of the great Dom, and there     File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare     A covered sedan,     Containing so ran     The rumor the victim to take off the ban.     They have left it alone,     They have sprinkled each stone     Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne,     Guaranteed in this case     To disguise every trace     Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place.     Two Carmelites stand     On the right and left hand     Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command     Of the prelate to throw     Up the cover and show     The form of the victim in terror below.     Theres a pause and a prayer,     Then the signal, and there     Is a woman! by all that is good and is fair!     A woman! and known     To them all one must own     Too well known to the many, to-day to be shown     As a martyr, or een     As a Christian! A queen     Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen;     So bad that the worst     Of Cologne spake up first,     And declared twas an outrage to suffer one curst,     And already a fief     Of the Satanic chief,     To martyr herself for the Churchs relief.     But in vain fell their sneer     On the mob, who I fear     On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer.     A woman! and there     She stands in the glare     Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare,     A woman still young,     With garments that clung     To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung     With remorse and despair,     Yet still passing fair,     With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair,     And cheeks that are faint     Neath her dyes and her paint.     A woman most surely but hardly a saint!     She moves. She has gone     From their pity and scorn;     She has mounted alone     The first step of stone,     And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown,     Then pauses and turns,     As the altar blaze burns     On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns     Archbishop and Prior,     Knight, ladye, and friar,     And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir.     O men of Cologne!     What I waS ye have known;     What I am, as I stand here, One knoweth alone.     If it be but His will     I shall pass from Him still,     Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill;     If still by that sign     Of His anger divine     One soul shall he saved, He hath blessed more than mine.     O men of Cologne!     Stand forth, if ye own     A faith like to this, or more fit to atone,     And take ye my place,     And God give you grace     To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face!     She paused. Yet aloof     They all stand. No reproof     Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof.     One instant no more     She halts at the door,     Then enters! . . . A flood from the roof to the floor     Fills the church rosy red.     She is gone!     But instead,     Who is this leaning forward with glorified head     And hands stretched to save?     Sure this is no slave     Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave!     They press to the door,     But too late! All is oer.     Naught remains but a womans form prone on the floor;     But they still see a trace     Of that glow in her face     That they saw in the light of the altars high blaze     On the image that stands     With the babe in its hands     Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands.     A Te Deum sung,     A censer high swung,     With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung,     Proclaim that the curse     Is removed and no worse     Is the Dom for the trial in fact, the reverse;     For instead of their losing     A soul in abusing     The Evil Ones faith, they gained one of his choosing.     Thus the legend is told:     You will find in the old     Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold     In iron and brass,     In gown and cuirass,     The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass;     And high oer the rest,     With her babe at her breast,     The image of Mary Madonna the blest.     But you look round in vain,     On each high pictured pane,     For the woman most worthy to walk in her train.     Yet, standing to-day     Oer the dust and the clay,     Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away,     With the slow-sinking sun     Looking softly upon     That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one     That it does not reveal,     For I know and I feel     That these are but shadows the woman was real!