Poems (Clark)/Saint Eustachius

by Annie Maria Lawrence Clark

SAINT EUSTACHIUS

In a book of wonderful legends,
 Very queer and quaint and old,
Is the tale of Saint Eustachius,
 That mayhap has seldom been told.

Splendor watched over his cradle,
 Grand and high rose his castle walls,
Ever brave was he at the tourney,
 And gay in the banquet halls.

Till his very soul grew aweary
 Of even the sweetness of life,
And he sought in the cell of the convent,
 Release from its tumult and strife.

But no wisdom had he of letters,
 No knowledge of book or pen,
And the only prayer of his saying,
 Over and over again,

Was the beautiful "Ave Maria,"
 Evening and morning and noon,
Till his heart seemed a sweet toned organ,
 Ever playing one reverent tune.

When he passed, the prayer of his lifetime
 Rose soft with his fleeting breath,
And "Ave Maria" filled his chamber,
 As the sweet benediction of death.

And when in the peace of the churchyard
 They had laid the dead brother to rest,
With the birds and the flowers and the sunshine,
 And the cross on his pulseless breast,

There grew from his grave a tall lily
 Wonderfully pure and rare,
With "Ave Maria" in letters of gold
 On each one of its petals fair.

And the monks were filled with wonder,
 And they opened the grave to seek
Why the glorious flower should honour
 A soul that had seemed so weak.

There they read a love-writ answer
 With a hushed and glad surprise,—
The lily grew from the dead man's lips,—
 His words wrapped in heavenly guise.

And so because of this lily—
 This robe of a heartfelt prayer—
And of dear old Saint Eustachius,
 One day of each year is fair,

With a memory sweet and fadeless,
 Of the saint so meekly true,
And the flower that told the story,
 Of the only prayer he knew.