The
following poem was cut from the New York "Independent" in 1867 or
1868 by Miss Martha J. Maltby. If was one of the "Sexton's Tales and Other Poems" of the
first collected edition of the poems of Theodore Tilton, issued by Sheldon
& Co.,
I.
“Maltby
Chapel, as you know,
Fell two
hundred years ago.
Hardly
now is left a stone;
Savfe upon the graves alone.
If your feet
should chance to pass
Weary
through the churchyard grass,
Rest them
by a marble tomb,
Crumbling
over bride and groom,
Who, when
they were hardly wed,
Found the
grave their bridal-bed.
II.
“Flowering
in the wall on high,
Like a
garden in the sky,
Stood a
window of the fane
Whence,
through many a rosy pane,
Lights of
purple, blue and red,
Down
through nave and aisle were shed.
Central
in the fair design
Hung the
Sorrowing Man divine,
Near him,
gazing, knelt or stood
Mary’s
weeping sisterhood;
Next with
colors interchanged,
Holy
emblems ‘round where ranged;
First a
light and then a dark:-
Here the
lion of St. Mark;
There the
eagle of St. John;
Cherub
heads with pinions on;
Virgin
lilies, white as frost;
Palm and olive branches, crossed.
Picture
of Paschal Lamb;
Letters of the great I Am.
Last and
topmost, Cross and Crown
And a
white Dove flying down.
Such a
window, in the light,
Was
itself a wondrous sight;
But the
eyes that on it gazed
Saw
devoutly, as it blazed,
Not the
purple panes alone;
Not the sun
that through them shone,
But,
beyond the lucent wall,
Heaven itself outshining all.
III.
“Up
through Maltby’s dusty road
Cromwell
and his pikemen strode-
Sis and
twenty hundred strong-
Roaring
forth a battle-song;
Who, in
marching to the fray,
Passed the
chapel on their way;
Never
dreaming how, inside,
Knelt a
bridegroom and his bride,-
She the
daughter of a peer;
He a knight and cavalier.
Quoth the
leader: ‘Rub the stains
Out of yonder painted panes.’
Glancing
at the mark to strike,
Then a
pikeman raised his pike,
Drew it
back half its length,
Sent it
whizzing through the air,
Sped it
with a pious prayer,
Winged it
with a holy curse,
Barbed it
with a Scripture verse;
Heard it
crash through pane and sash,
‘Till
above the tinkling crash,
Loud his shouting
mates exclaimed;
‘Bravo,
Ironsider! Well aimed!
So may
every church of sin
Have the
light of God let in.’
IV.
“Like the
spear that pierced the side
Of the
Savior crucified,
So the
weapon that was hurled
Smote the
Saviour of the world;
Tearing
out the sacred tree
Where he
hung for you and me;
Curving
downward, flying fast
Where the
streaming rays were east;
Flashing
from the shaft each hue
Which it
caught in quivering through;
Plunging
to the bridal pair,
While they yet were bent in prayer;
Then, like
Death’s own dart,
Pierced the maiden to the heart.
Back she
fell against the floor,
Lying
crimson in her gore,
“Till her
bloodless face grew pale
Like the
whiteness of her veil.
V.
“Years
may come and years may go,
Ere a
mortal man shall know
Such a more
than mortal pain
As the knight felt in his brain.
Long he
knelt beside the dead,
Long he
kissed her face and head,
Long he
clasped her pulseless palm,
He in
tempest, she in calm:
Stricken
by his anguish dumb,
Neither
words nor tears would come;
“Till at
last with groan and shriek,
Brokenly
he thus did speak:
‘O, sweet
body, turned to clay-
Since thy
soul has fled away,
Let this
lingering soul of mine
Lift its
wings and fly to thine:-
Wed us in
Thy Heavens, O Lord!’
Rose he then, and drew his sword,
Braced
his hilt against the wood
Of the
alter where he stood;
Leaned
his breast against its point,
Stiffened
ever limb and joint,
Clenched
his hands about the blade;
Muttered
words as if he prayed,-
Then,
with one ecstatic breath,
Cast
himself upon his death,
VI.
“Hence
the tomb was made so wide
Both
could slumber side by side,
But,
though lovers fall to dust
As their
mortal bodies must,
Still, to
souls that interblend,
Love
itself can never end.
VII.
“Rupert,
flying in defeat,
Checked
at Maltby his retreat;
‘Through
the chapel, bullet proof,
Camped his mem beneath the roof;
Stood
defiant for a day,
Fiery as
a stag at bay;
Made a
dim defense, but vain,-
Then in
darkness and in rain,
Fearful
of the morrow’s fight,
Stole away at dead of night.
When the
Roundheads saw with rage
How the
birds had quit the cage,
They, in
spite, with blow on blow,
Fought the chapel for a foe.
So it
came that tower and bell
Roof and
spire, together fell,-
Battered
down in name of Heaven,
April,