Canto 14 (Fervid he spake. And Ungar there…)

Fervid he spake. And Ungar there Appeared (if looks allow surmise) In latent way to sympathize, Yet wonder at the votary's air; And frequent too he turned his face To note the grotto, and compare These haunted precincts with the guide, As so to realize the place, Or fact from fable to divide; At times his changeful aspect wore Touch of the look the simple shepherds bore. The Tuscan marked; he pierced him through, Yet gently, gifted with the clew— Ascetic insight; and he caught The lapse within the soldier's thought, The favorable frame, nor missed Appealing to it, to enlist Or influence, or drop a seed

Which might some latter harvest breed. Gently approaching him, he said: "True sign you bear: your sword's a cross." Ungar but started, as at loss To take the meaning, and yet led To marvel how that mannered word Did somehow slip into accord With visitings that scarce might cleave Shadows, but shadows fugitive. He lifted up the steel: the blade Was straight; the hilt, a bar: "'Tis true; A cross, it is a cross," he said; And touched seemed, though 'twas hardly new.

When glowed the other; and, again: Ignatlus was a soldier too, And Martin. 'Tis the pure disdain Of life, or, holding life the real, Still subject to a brave ideal— 'Tis this that makes the tent a porch Whereby the warrior wins the church: The habit of renouncing, yes, 'Tis good, a good preparedness.— Our founder"—here he raised his eyes As unto all the sanctities— "Footing it near Rieti town Met a young knight on horseback, one Named Angelo Tancredi: 'Lo,' He said, 'Thy belt thou'lt change for cord Thy spurs for mire, good Angelo, And be a true knight of the Lord.' And he, the cavalier " Aside A brother of the cowl here drew This ardent proselyting guide, Detaining him in interview About some matter. Ungar stood Lost in his thoughts. In neighborhood Derwent by Rolfe here chanced to bide And said: "It just occurs to me As interesting in its way, That these Franciscans steadily Have been custodians of the Tomb And Manger, ever since the day Of rescue under Godfrey's plume Long centuries ago." Rolfe said: "Ay; and appropriate seems it too For the Franciscan retinue To keep these places, since their head, St. Francis, spite his scouted hood May claim more of similitude To Christ, than any man we know. Through clouds of myth investing him— Obscuring, yet attesting him, He burns with the seraphic glow And perfume of a holy flower. Sweetness, simplicity, with power! By love's true miracle of charm He instituted a reform (Not insurrection) which restored For time the spirit of his Lord On earth. If sad perversion came Unto his order—what of that? All Christianity shares the same: Pure things men need adulterate And so adapt them to the kind." "Oh, oh! But I have grown resigned To these vagaries.—And for him, Assisi's saint—a good young man, No doubt, and beautiful to limn; Yes, something soft, Elysian; Nay, rather, the transparent hue Unearthly of a maiden tranced In sleep somnambulic; no true Color of health; beauty enhanced To enervation. In a word, For all his charity divine, Love, self-devotion, ardor fine— Unmanly seems he!" "Of our Lord

The same was said by Machiavel, Or hinted, rather. Prithee, tell, What is it to be manlY?" "Why, To be man-like"—and here the chest Bold out he threw—"man at his best!" "But even at best, one might reply, Man is that thing of sad renown Which moved a deity to come down And save him. Lay not too much stress Upon the carnal manliness: The Christliness is better—higher;

And Francis owned it, the first friar. Too orthodox is that?" "See, see," Said Derwent, with kind air of one Who would a brother's weak spot shun: "Mark this most delicate drapery; If woven by some royal dame— God bless her and her tambour frame!"