The lesson of this beautiful fancy is the complement of the Shop lesson. Even drudgery may be divine; since the will of God is the work to be done, no matter whether under St. Peters dome or in the cell of the craftsman (the Boy) all one, if on the earth or in the sun (the Angel).
The poem is so full of exquisite things, that only a few can be noted. The value of the little human praise to God Himself (distich 12), all the dearer because of the doubts and fears in it (20-22); and the contrast between its seeming weakness and insignificance and its real importance as a necessary part of the great chorus of creation (34); the eager desire of Gabriel to anticipate the will of God, and his content to live on earth and bend over a common trade, if only thus he can serve Him best (13-19); and again the content of the new pope Theocrite to go back to his cell and poor employ and fill out the measure of his day of service, growing old at home, while Gabriel as contentedly takes his place as pope (probably a harder trial than the more menial service) and waits for the time when both sought God side by side these are some of the fine and far reaching thoughts which find simple and beautiful expression here.
Longfellows King Robert of Sicily, though not really parallel, has points of similarity to The Boy and the Angel.
THE PATRIOT
AN OLD STORYIIt was roses, roses, all the way,
With myrtle mixed in my path like mad:
The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway,
The church-spires flamed, such flags they had,
A year ago on this very day.
The air broke into a mist with bells,
The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
Had I said, Good folk, mere noise repels
But give me your sun from yonder skies!
They had answered And afterward, what else?
Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
To give it my loving friends to keep!
Nought man could do, have I left undone:
And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.
Theres nobody on the house-tops now
Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
At the Shambles Gate or, better yet,
By the very scaffolds foot, I trow.
I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
A rope cuts both my wrists behind,
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my years misdeeds.
Thus I entered, and thus I go!
In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
Me? God might question; now instead,
Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
The Patriot, on his way to the scaffold, surrounded by a hooting crowd, remembers how, just a year ago, the same people had been mad in their enthusiasm for him. Anything at all, however extravagant, would have been too little for them to do for him (stanza 2; cf. Gal. iv. 15, 16); but now ! The fourth stanza is very powerful. All have gone who can, to be ready to see the execution; only the palsied few, who cannot, are at the windows to see him pass. In the last stanza the thought of a more sudden contrast still is presented. A man may drop dead in the midst of a triumph, to find that in its brief plaudits he has his reward, while a vast account stands against him at the higher tribunal. Far better die amid the execrations of men and find the contrast reversed.
It is an old story, and therefore general; but one naturally thinks of such cases as Arnold of Brescia, or the tribune Rienzi. A higher Name than these need not be introduced here, in proof of the peoples fickleness!
INSTANS TYRANNUS
IOf the million or two, more or less,
I rule and possess,
One man, for some cause undefined,
Was least to my mind.
I struck him, he grovelled of course
For, what was his force?
I pinned him to earth with my weight
And persistence of hate;
And he lay, would not moan, would not curse,
As his lot might be worse.
Were the object less mean, would he stand
At the swing of my hand!
For obscurity helps him, and blots
The hole where he squats.
So, I set my five wits on the stretch
To inveigle the wretch.
All in vain! Gold and jewels I threw
Still he couched there perdue;
I tempted his blood and his flesh,
Hid in roses my mesh,
Choicest cates and the flagons best spilth
Still he kept to his filth.
Had he kith now or kin, were access
To his heart, did I press
Just a son or a mother to seize!
No such booty as these.
Were it simply a friend to pursue
Mid my million or two,
Who could pay me, in person or pelf,
What he owes me himself!
No: I could not but smile through my chafe:
For the fellow lay safe
As his mates do, the midge and the nit,
Through minuteness, to wit.
Then a humour more great took its place
At the thought of his face:
The droop, the low cares of the mouth,
The trouble uncouth
Twixt the brows, all that air one is fain
To put out of its pain.
And, no! I admonished myself,
Is one mocked by an elf,
Is one baffled by toad or by rat?
The gravamens in that!
How the lion, who crouches to suit
His back to my foot,
Would admire that I stand in debate!
But the small turns the great
If it vexes you, that is the thing!
Toad or rat vex the king?
Though I waste half my realm to unearth
Toad or rat, tis well worth!
So, I soberly laid my last plan
To extinguish the man.
Round his creep-hole, with never a break
Ran my fires for his sake;
Over-head, did my thunder combine
With my under-ground mine:
Till I looked from my labour content
To enjoy the event.
When sudden how think ye, the end?
Did I say without friend?
Say rather from marge to blue marge
The whole sky grew his targe
With the suns self for visible boss,
While an Arm ran across
Which the earth heaved beneath like a breast
Where the wretch was safe prest!
Do you see! Just my vengeance complete,
The man sprang to his feet,
Stood erect, caught at Gods skirts, and prayed!
So, I was afraid!
Instans Tyrannus, the present tyrant, the tyrant for the time only, whose apparently illimitable power to hurt shrivels into nothing in presence of the King of kings, whose dominion is everlasting.
The poor victim of this tyrants oppression is a true child of God, but the nobility of his inner life is of course concealed from the proud wretch who despises him, and who, it must be remembered, is the speaker throughout. We must be careful, therefore, to estimate at their proper worth the epithets he applies and the motives he attributes to the object of his hate. He can, of course, think of no other reason why his victim would not moan, would not curse, than that, if he did, his lot might be worse. And again, when temptation failed to shake his steadfast patience, the tyrant is quite consistent with himself, as one of those who call evil good, and good evil, in speaking of him as still keeping to his filth. The last stanza is magnificent. Has the power of prayer ever been set forth in nobler language?