The Fountain And The Sword: A Romance In Thirteen Cantos
(Wherein Is Told, In The Similitude Of A Dream, A Soul’s Journey From Delusion To Truth)
By S. M. Hillis
Preface
I feel that before proceeding further with this quaint little book, I must set down a few words as to why it is what it is, and what my aim has chiefly been in writing it. Firstly, this is a narrative poem written in the style of a medieval romance, though it does not have to do with chivalric deeds of an external or a physical kind. Rather, it is a tale of the inner life. The narrator and protagonist is a young woman, or rather the soul of a young woman, and the dream-scape in which the tale is set is nothing more nor less than her own self, her heart, as Holy Tradition calls it. The plot reflects the trajectory of my own life, and therefore is, in a way, autobiographical. However, I do not think a detailed history of my life a necessary prologue to the enjoyment of the poem. I use my life as the model upon which to base the dreamer’s wanderings, but it is, as it were, my life written from my soul’s point of view.
I realize that the preceding statement may seem dreadfully pretentious. Let me hasten to assure my readers that I know no more of my own soul’s state than do most of us on our earthly journeys. Yet, I pray that what follows is as near as I can come to being accurate in rendering how my soul has been knocked about during its journey within this body, and how I, though I did not know it for a long time, had done most of the knocking myself. A soul can get rather bruised when she stumbles around in the dark, forgetting to look upwards toward the sun. This, at last, is what the following pages are: the story of how a soul, blinded and wounded, comes to find healing and sight where she least expected it. The choice of a dream-vision narrative structure for the poem is partly so that the marvelous things generally associated with chivalric romance may be included, and also, because a dream-scape is the best one for creating allegorical and metaphorical symbol-systems. My Orthodox reader may be suspicious that I call this a dream-vision narrative, but I must assure this reader that, while some of the imagery has come from dreams I have had throughout my life, nothing of the interpretation is based upon my own dreams, and I have never had a vision of Christ or of The Theotokos. Yet, when we speak of a soul’s journey, we must believe that somehow, that soul has met both demons and angels, Satan and Christ in its travels. So, while Christ and The Most-Holy Theotokos are characters in the dream, they are met within the dreamer’s heart, and not outside of it. Yet, if you think it too beguiling, only your own heart and conscience can judge. Take what counsel you will, and do what you think is best.I seek not to beguile, but rather to describe, at least in figure, the path to repentance. Poetry, I think, is the best linguistic medium to which to tune that purpose. The psalms of David, after all, are poetry, and they demonstrate the hhights of joy and the depths of sorrow into which the penitent soul may be lifted or sink. They paint, with heart-rending eloquence, the afflictions which can plague a soul as well as the ever-enduring mercy of God. While I cannot claim to have the righteous David’s gift for words, I have nonetheless composed this poem in an attempt to trace the journey of one particular soul from waywardness to the beginning of the path of repentance in what I hope is a manner appropriate to the subject.
The Spenserian stanza is the most accomplished rhyming form in the English language, and it is because of this that I have used it throughout. It fits a narrative quite well, and is moreover useful for dialogue. Also, it is so composed that it can paint small scenes which build upon each other to form a vast and colourful tapestry. It can, however, very easily fall flat on its face if not handled correctly. I beg the reader’s forgiveness, therefore, for any part which detracts from the whole as far as phrasing or style are concerned, and pray him or her to pass it over quickly and go on to the next line, stanza, page or canto, with a heart not too angered by these little imperfections.
In short, may God grant that this book be received as it was intended, and may all the glory and praise from it go to Him, who authored it before ever I put it down on paper.
Yours in Christ,
S. M. H.
Dedicatory Sonnet
To My God-mother, R. R.
To her of humble heart and helping hand,
A kindred soul indeed, I write these lines.
To her whose tears, as countless as the sand,
Did fall for me, this verse I give. These vines
Of laurel green upon my brow I place,
Because they have been given me to wear
By Him who is the author of all grace,
So that I may His boundless love declare.
And so, while unto Him the praise belongs,
I must address these numbers to the one
Whose prayers and thoughts, despite my many wrongs,
Have been that I God’s holy race might run.
To thee, my dearest sister in the Lord,
I dedicate “The Fountain And The Sword.”
Book The First
Invocation
As I begin these numbers to compose,
I seek Thine August aid, Whose Hand and Mind
Did form the thorns and petals of the rose,
And did devise the movements of the wind.
For Thou alone true sight canst give the blind,
So that we may begin, as in a glass
Unbent by flaw, to see ourselves declined
And weak, as is a tender blade of grass
Which in the morn doth bloom, and by the eve doth pass.
Oh help me sing, my Father true and good,
Of how I found The and again did lose
Thine hand in self-inflicted orphanhood,
And how I did my spirit break and bruise.
Unfold to me both artifice and ruse
Of that beguiler, ancient as the stars,
Wherein he tempteth man some wrong to choose,
And with each wrong, man’s beauty bright he mars,
And last, O Sovereign King of Heaven, tell
Of that great treasure which Thou didst instill
Within the deepest heart of man to dwell--
That treasure, unconstrained as is the rill
Which over stone and steep doth freely spill
When flooded deeply with the rains of spring--
Thy greatest gift to man, the self-same will
Which is as free as Thine, a holy thing.
Oh tell of it aright that I may truly sing!
Canto One
What life doth lie beyond this weary round
Of days which too-soon sinketh into night?
What love can last beyond life's ancient bound,
Or live when death hath plundered it? What right
Hath any man to seek the joy and light
Of truest love, when brief, and all-too brief
Doth burn its flame with splendid beauty bright,
And when 'tis dimmed, love findeth no relief
Or balm to heal its cold, unending, bitter grief?
Thus ran my thought, as wakeful and alone
I sat at night within my study dark,
And for my late-lamented love made moan
Within my heart, and waited for the lark
To greet the coming dawn, and end the stark
And bitter groanings of my saddened soul.
Long time ago had burned in me a spark
Of joy unworn by want, undimmed by dole,
But now that spark was gone, and in its place a hole.
So I bethought me how I might beguile
The solitary vigil I did keep,
And how I might beseech my heart to smile
Despite her black propensity to weep.
I asked myself what harvest I might reap
From all the lore and learning that lay near
At hand. Perhaps the soothing balm of sleep
Would come if in some book I could but peer
And find diversion from my sorrows dread and drear.
So while I sought among the dusty leaves
Of tomes unread for years and years again,
I happened on a volume which through eves
And morns of youth I drank as rose doth rain.
Created by a knight who long had lain
A-languishing within a prison cell,
It telleth tales of bliss and eke of bane
Which in the days of chivalry befell
The brave and noble knights of Arthur's Citadel.
And in that book there was one passage which
To me did show in figure bright and clear
The highest truth of chivalry. To pitch
Of burning beauty, keen as any spear
Did I ascend when I did read with fear
Of Arthur's knightly winning of the fair
And mystic sword Excalibur whose peer
Could not be found, and which within her lair
The Lady of the Lake had kept with watchful care.
For ages had she guarded it until
The king of Albeon had come, a lad
With beard but scarcely grown, and at the will
Of merlin, famed magician, she then bad
The sword be brandished high in hand all clad
In silken samite, whiter than the snow,
Above the waters of her lake. Then glad
Of heart was Arthur when he saw the glow
Of sun upon that blade so bright, which dawn did show.
And then, as he did stand with gaze aghast,
Did Arthur see upon the waters glide
As gracefully as on a surface glassed,
The Lady of the Lake come to his side,
And so with humble welcome, he then passed
Some converse with her, begging her to hide
From him no knowledge of that seemly sword,
If aught she knew. And so she told with pride
How that the sword was hers, and how that lord
Might claim it if he would a gift to her award.
He asked what boon he might to her extend,
But no specific favour did she crave,
Yet held it till her need might apprehend
A fitter time to gain by what she gave.
Instead she asked if sword or sheath might have
The highest place in Arthur's good esteem,
To which he answered as he was a brave
And noble knight: "Fair lady, I do deem
The blade the better of the two. Doth it not seem?"
"Thy choice is made, dear King," said she,
"And yet the sheath is also thine. I tell
Thee now that thou shalt learn to call the key
Of life that thing thou didst disdain. A spell
Was wisely woven into it, and well
It guardeth him who wears it 'gainst all harm
Of battle's bite. No wound so fierce or fell
Can penetrate that mighty magic charm,
So long as doth its keeper wear it when he arm."
Book II.
Invocation
O Thou who art both perfect God and man
Perfected, pure and undefiled by things
Of fallen earth which perish when their span
Of life doth end! O Word! O King of Kings!
Unto my lisping language lend Thy wings
Of love undimmed by envy or by greed,
That, flying free from passion’s piercing stings,
My song might mount aloft and soar indeed
Unto Thy throne where worldly woes cannot impede!
As incense, let it joyfully ascend,
That I may sing of passion, pain and grief;
And from those wounds and sorrowings defend
My heart and spirit. Let this tale of brief
And burning love–yea, all too brief!--
Be told in all its beauty, bliss and woe.
But, Thou who healest and dost bring relief
Unto the brokenhearted, help me so
That I may not be further broken as I go.
O come, Thou pure and blameless Saviour, stand
Beside me while, in haulting words, I tell
of love and death, whose unrelenting hand
Cannot be stayed so long as man doth dwell
Upon the mortal earth. When Adam fell,
Then man was prey to mortal hopes and fears.
And yet, although the sombre, deadly knell
Pursued us, Thou wast with us through the years,
And by Thy saving death, Thou canst dispell our tears.
Book III.
Invocation
O Spirit, breathing from the highest halls
Of Heaven, come and whisper to my soul
Of things both high and deep, of what befalls
The penitential heart when from it Thou dost role
The stone of doubt. Oh, tell me of the toll
Of sin which every human soul doth bear
From birth, for now I hasten to the goal
Of this poor song: to faithfully declare
Thy mercy and Thy kindness which are pure beyond compare.
O Thou who givest life beyond the door
Of death, bestow Thy grace upon this rhyme,
And let it sing of how Thou dost restore
The wayward soul unto Thyself. ‘Tis time
For me to tell of mercy, of sublime
And endless love abounding unto all.
‘Tis now my task the heights of Truth to climb,
And so, upon Thine August aid I call,
That from those heights these feeble verses may not fall.
O King of Heaven, Comforter, who from
The Father flyest faster than the thought
Of man, unto this novice poet come,
That words of Truth might then by me be wrought.
Without Thee, Lord, all words must come to nought,
And song must sink to silence in the end.
O Spirit Bright, I must by Thee be taught
To sing aright. For now, I do intend
To sing of what the human mind can never comprehend.
Closing Sonnet
To The Most-Holy Theotokos And Ever-virgin Mary
O champion leader of the shining ranks
Of saints which dwell in Paradise, to thee
Do I thy servant pledge with tears of thanks
This humble canticle of victory.
When terrors manifold besiege my soul,
And sorrows numberless upon me fall;
When sufferings exact from me a toll
Of grief and pain, thou hearest when I call.
As thou art one with Saving Might that be
Invincible, Omnipotent and Sure,
From every danger do thou set me free,
O blessed Theotokos, bright and pure,
That I may cry to thee with heart and voice:
Unwedded, virgin bride of God, rejoice!
Begun, 2006
Still Unfinished