Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

THE LAST SUPPER.

A PICTURE BY LEONARDI DA VINCI

BEHOLD that countenance, where grief and love Blend with ineffable benignity, And deep, unuttered majesty divine.

Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart, And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe? Redeemer! is it thine? And is this feast, Thy last on earth? Why do the chosen few, Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand As men transfix'd with horror? Ah! I hear The appalling answer, from those lips divine, "One of you shall betray me." One of these? Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers, Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant Turns to the rain of summer? One of these! Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops

The loved disciple, as if life's warm spring Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock Of unimagined guilt. See his whole soul Concentred in his eye, the man who walked The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts The horror struck inquiry—"Is it I? Lord! is it I?" while earnest pressing near, His brother's lip, in ardent echo seems Doubling the fearful thought. With brow upraised, Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul; And springing eager from the table's foot, Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope, That by his ear, the Master's awful words Had been misconstrued. To the side of Christ, James, in the warmth of cherished friendship clings, Yet trembles as the traitor's image steals Into his throbbing heart; while he, whose hand In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds Of him he loved, points upward to invoke The avenging God. Philip, with startled gaze, Stands in his crystal singleness of soul, Attesting innocence—while Matthew's voice, Repeating fervently the Master's words, Rouses to agony the listening group, Who, half incredulous, with terror, seem To shudder at his accents. All the twelve With strong emotion strive, save one false breast

By Mammon seared, which, brooding o'er its gain, Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour's blood. Son of perdition!—dost thou freely breathe In such pure atmosphere?—And canst thou hide, 'Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow, The burden of a deed whose very name Strikes all thy brethren pale? But can it be That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene Is the slight pencil's witchery?—I would speak Of him who pour'd such bold conception forth O'er the dead canvass. But I dare not muse, Now of a mortal's praise. Subdued I stand In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God— I feel the breathing of those holy men, From whom thy gospel, as on angel's wing. Went out through all the earth. I see how deep Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask— "Lord!—is it I?" For who may tell, what dregs Do slumber in his breast. Thou, who didst taste Of man's infirmities, yet bar his sins From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not In our temptations; but so guide our feet, That our Last Supper in this world may lead To that immortal banquet by thy side, Where there is no betrayer.