4509941Poems — The HostMarie Van Vorst
THE HOST
I had my enemy within my house.
My enemy—my arch, arch enemy.
I bound my handkerchief about his brows,
For he was wan and cried—"A Boon!" to me.

Standing upon the threshold—wan, distraught.
His eyes filmed with the mist of sickness dim;
"He does not know it is my house!" (I thought)
"Salve!" I cried, and ran to welcome him.

He could not see nor hear; I spread my bed,
Thereon I made him lie all weakly down.
Blood ran into his eyes, from his rent head
Cut deep between the eyebrow and the crown.

Quickly I ministered what grace I could:
Washed out the wound and bound it up with care;
Smoothing his kerchief as his mother would;
Laying my fingers gently through his hair.

From out my store I fetched a brimming cup
Of fragrant wine, and held it to his lip,
Lifting all tenderly his hurt head up.
Lest he should know me,—let the curtain slip

Between our faces. Long he drank, and deep,
And muttered thanks to God, and stretched out wide
His great form on my bed, thus fell asleep
Safe as the child his mother guards beside.

And there, within my walls, he lay at last,
My enemy—my arch, arch enemy!
I let my crimson passion loose, and cast
Curses for all the wrongs he 'd done to me.

Crouching low at the bedfoot, still, oh, still
As Fate relentless, long I watched him lie
Curtained within the shadows red, until
He seemed to lie there murdered bloodily.

Like deadly grave-robed figures, one by one,
A cold procession passed before my gaze,
The high bold-handed evils he had done
To me, to mine, the ruin of our days.

I felt my hand close on my unsheathed sword—
"The prayers of all your yesterdays" (I cried)
"Must gain you pardon of the gracious Lord!"
And he, unshriven, by my hot hate had died—

Had I not heard wild cries without my door,
The acclamations of the multitude.
My enemy stirred not in his stupor
I drew the bedshades close, and waiting stood.

Then they were all about me in the place,
Strange, furious faces, peering everywhere
Seeking the hated stranger, whose foul trace
Had left their village desolate as here.

"Show us Pasquale, show the devil hound,"
And twenty eyes flashed sharper than the blade.
They shrieked his name until I thought no swound
Was proof against the riot that they made.

I saw the naked unsheathed swords, I saw
(My enemy—my arch, arch enemy!)
Minions of justice, armed with hate and Law
And my guest was asleep . . ." Myself am he"

(I said before the swords their home could find).
"Draw me without," I prayed, "I would not fall
Here where my children sleep." And they were kind
And dragged me far without my own portal.

Ere they could send my soul to hell unshriven
Pasquale's men came riding bright as day
More time new sins to make, to cry to heaven,
They bought Pasquale ... I write as I lay.

They say I shall not see another dawn
But I have had the sacred Eucharist
And write this for true knights to dream upon.

That day of his sore need, with broken brows
And sightless eyes blinded with bloody mist
Helpless, whilst his pursuers hounded on
I had my enemy within my house.