Wednesday, December 29, 2021

I Ever Wished to Live an Honest Man

BECKET. Herbert! my Herbert!
 High visions, mine in youth, upbraid me now:
 I dreamed of sanctities redeemed from shame;
 Abuses crushed; all sacred offices
 Reserved for spotless hands. Again I see them;
 I see God's realm so bright each English home
 Sharing that glory basks amid its peace;
 I see the clear flame on the poor man's hearth
 From God's own altar lit; the angelic childhood;
 The chaste, strong youth; the reverence of white hairs :--
 'Tis this Religion means. O Herbert! Herbert!
 We must secure her this! Her rights, the lowest
 Shall in my hand be safe. I will not suffer
 The pettiest stone in castle, grange, or mill,
 The humblest clod of English earth, one time
 A fief of my great mother, Canterbury,
 To rest a caitiff's booty. Herbert, Herbert,
 Had I foreseen, with what a vigilant care
 Had I built up my soul! The fall from greatness
 Had tried me less severely. Many a time I said,
“From follies of these courts and camps
 Reverse will scourge me homeward to my God;
 He'll ne'er forego me 'till I grow to Christian !'
 Lo! greatness comes, not judgment.

HERBERT. It may be
That God hath sent you both in one.
Fear nought! At Paris first, and after at Bologna,
You learned the Church's lore.

BECKET. I can be this,
 The watch-dog keeping safe his master's door
 Though knowing but little of the stores within:
 I'll do my best to learn. Give we, each day,
 Six hours to sacred studies ! Ah! you smile;
 You note once more the boaster. Friend, 'tis true,
 Our penitence itself doth need repentance;
 Our humbleness hath in it blots of pride.
 Hark to that truant's song! We celibates
 Are strangely captured by this love of children,
 Nature's revenge -- say, rather, compensation.
 The king will take him hence: God's will be done!
 I lose my pupil, and become your pupil;
 A humble one; no more.
 High saint of God, or doctor of the Church,
 'Twere late for that; yet something still remains:
 I ever wished to live an honest man,
 Honest to all, and most to Christ, my Master.
 Help me to be His servant true!

From Aubrey De Vere's dramatic Poem, Saint Thomas of Canterbury