The Midnight Mass

An Incident of the French Revolution.

THE light lay trembling in a silver bar

Along the western borders of the sky;

From out the shadowy dome a little star

Stole forth to keep its patient watch on high;

And night came down, with solemn, soft embrace,

On storied Brittany.

Another night lay over all the land-

The dark of hell, and lurid with its fire.

She heard the roar of fiends; she saw the brand

Flung red and hissing over roof and spire;

She saw her golden spurs and reaping-hooks

Tossed on the funeral pyre.

She stood in calm defiance, while the flood

Swept over her;-while everywhere was seen

Her dim, majestic cities drenched in blood;

Ashes and smoke where temple-walls had been;

And high on woodland knoll and market-place,

The ghastly guillotine.

‘Twas hard to tear her peasant-souls apart

From priest and liege, and clinging faith of old;

‘Twas hard to bend the strong and simple heart

By fear of torture or by love of gold:

For naught those gory hands could offer them

Might consciences be sold.

“No tower or belfry shall be left to stand,”

Saint André swore, and waved his cap of red;

“You shall have naught in all this cursèd land

For sign of your superstition,-it is dead!”

A peasant heard, and raised his eyes to heaven;-

“You’ll leave the stars,” he said.

True were the priests and people, each to each,

And all alike to their unlettered creed;

No violent force of sophistry could reach

Their rough-hewn faith in bitter time of need.

They died with deaf ears and dumb mouths; and theirs

Was martyrdom indeed!

Night-midnight-lay beneath her silver lamps;

Her deep sleep broken by the fitful glare

Of bivouac fires in noisy village camps,

And hoarse shouts mellowed through the listening air;

Save only where the sea-waves washed the coast-

‘Twas still and quiet there:

The heave and swell, and sudden, plunging dash

Against the low rocks lying in their reach;

The hissing shingle, and the sweet, free plash

Of long-drawn breakers on the open beach;

And now and then, in momentary pause,

The curlew’s mournful screech:

The soft, low gurgle in the hollowed track

Through reef and boulder; and the rippling fall

Of idle wandering waters, swirling back

From secret tryst in Naiads’ rocky hall;-

Only these sounds-save that deep monotone

Which held and hushed them all.

Only these sounds? Was nothing to be heard

But voice of breaker as it rose and fell,

The kelpie’s song, the wailing of a bird?

Ay, far and faint amid the restless swell,

One other voice stole whispering through the air-

The chime of a silver bell.

It came from dim mid-ocean, wild and free,

To listening ears, in silence of the night;

And watchful eyes saw, out upon the sea

And ‘neath the stars, a little twinkling light-

Now lost behind a waving mountain-top,

Now shining clear and bright.

Softly the fishers’ boats began to glide

From shadowy rock and sheltered cave and creek;

Bronzed men and gentle maidens, side by side,

Dipped muffled oars; no woman-hand was weak.

All eyes turned, wistful, to the beacon-lamp;

But no one dared to speak.

The scattered specks, with each its little crowd,

Drew near, converging on the distant bark;

The sweet bell rang out louder and more loud,

The light shone bright and brighter in the dark:

And soon a hundred lips burst forth in praise-

For all had reach’d the ark.

There was the priest, with whom they came to sup,

White-hair’d and holy, by his humble board;

There, amid light and darkness lifted up,

The blessed rood, by simple eyes adored.

Each head was bowed, each pious knee was bent

In presence of the Lord.

Ah! ’twas a grand cathedral where they knelt!

Grand was the organ-music-vast the crypt

Wherein its wild, mysterious echoes dwelt;

And fresh and pure the incense, as it slipp’d

Down shining floor and down wide altar-steps,

With frosted silver tipp’d.

Grand was the darken’d aisles and solemn nave-

The domèd roof, magnificently high-

The airy walls and mighty architrave-

The sweet star-tapers that could never die!

And grander still its purity of peace,

Its untouched sanctity.

The worn and weary ones came there, to search

For rest and hope in holy Eucharist;

There-in the splendour of that solemn church-

They, priest and people, communed with the Christ;

Thus-with all other temples overthrown-

They kept his sacred tryst.

With calm, grave eyes and even-pulsing breath,

They dipp’d their still oars in the darken’d space.

Strong now the hands fast rowing back to death!-

And strong the simple hearts, new clothed in grace-

The hush’d and quiet souls-ere long to meet

Their Saviour face to face.

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Poems in English 

• Robert Burns: The Winter It Is Past: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To Daunton Me: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Talk Of Him That’s Far Awa: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: The Lad They Ca’Jumpin John: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Duncan Davison : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Hey, The Dusty Miller: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: How Long And Dreary Is The Night : by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Up In The Morning Early: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Raving Winds Around Her Blowing: I composed these verses on Miss Isabella M’Leod of Raza, alluding to her feelings on the death of her sister, and the still more melancholy death of her sister’s husband, the late Earl of Loudoun, who shot himself out of sheer heart-break at some mortifications he suffered, owing to the deranged state of his finances.-R.B., 1971. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: My Hoggie: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Stay My Charmer: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: M’Pherson’s Farewell: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: To The Weavers Gin Ye Go: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: I’m O’er Young To Marry Yet: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Clarinda, Mistress Of My Soul: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Go On, Sweet Bird, And Sooth My Care: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Love In The Guise Of Friendship: by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Sylvander To Clarinda: Extempore Reply to Verses addressed to the Author by a Lady, under the signature of “Clarinda” and entitled, On Burns saying he ‘had nothing else to do.’ by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: On The Death Of Robert Dundas, Esq., Of Arniston,: Late Lord President of the Court of Session. by Robert Burns
• Robert Burns: Birthday Ode For 31st December, 1787: by Robert Burns

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