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Page 2 text:
“
i Ae el' 0 Wai, ame by Edwin Markheim Once in the time of Louis the King Happened a smiling and holy thing. 'Twas all in the outdoor days of old, Days that fancy has warmed with gold, Days that are gone with the leaves, alas! When the light-legged iuggler Barnabas From city to wondering city went, Sprinkling the world with his merriment. One eve, on the edge of a lonely town, As the clouds drove by and the rain shot down Poor Barnabas abed in the cattle stalls, Fell in with a friar from the cloistral halls- Father, said Barnabas, this that you see, This is the kill-care Barnabas, he Who has lighted with laughter a hundred towns Driving before him the phlegms and frown,- Lord ofthe revels, but now, ah, now, Blown in the wind as a leafless bough. Oh the iuggler's trade would the sweetest be Of all in the world, if bread were free! Beware, said the friar, beware, my son: The cloistral trade is the sweetest one. For the triars keep orison day and night, And ioin the song ofthe souls in light, And the Seven Throne Angels burning white. Father, my tongue ran loose and long: Your trade is the sweetest: l did God wrong.
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Page 3 text:
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Come, said the friar, to the cloistral rest: For the God who gives to the bird nest, And guides the worm on its Iampless quest, Has sent me out on the edge of night To lead your soul to the place of light. Sweet as the sound of the sudden stream That cools the heat of the traveler's dream, So sweet was the sound of the friendly word The weary heart of the iuggler heard. That night he entered the convent door, That night he slept on the frater's floor. He had found a home for his heart at last, And the piteous chance of the road was past. Lightly still went the busy days Where each one toiled in Our Lady's praise. But to Iaud in marble, to praise in brass, To honor in color, poor Barnabas, Nothing of these could he do, alas! As leaves on a desert his learning was scant, He knew neither litany, credo, nor chant, Nor Pater, nor Ave-not even a prayer, Like a sheep of the field, like a hawk of the air. X So morninglby morning the young friar slipped Through doors and halls to a secret crypt, And kneeling low at the altar cried: O Madam and Mother, O Virgin Bride, Here am I only a tethered ox, Eating the grass of the useful flocks! The choir can sing, and the deasons read The Gospel to scatter the living seed. Others can praise where the censor swing, And the white smoke circles, ring on ring. But I, poor Barnabas, nothing can l, But drone in the sun as a drowsy fly. icontinued on backend pagel . .r 'A A X is V . ..:fr'l1Y . 1-.
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