The Host

I had my enemy within my house.My enemy—my arch, arch enemy.I bound my handkerchief about his brows,For he was wan and cried—"A Boon!" to me.

Standing upon the threshold—wan, distraught.His eyes filmed with the mist of sickness dim;"He does not know it is my house!" (I thought)"Salve!" I cried, and ran to welcome him.

He could not see nor hear; I spread my bed,Thereon I made him lie all weakly down.Blood ran into his eyes, from his rent headCut deep between the eyebrow and the crown.

Quickly I ministered what grace I could:Washed out the wound and bound it up with care;Smoothing his kerchief as his mother would;Laying my fingers gently through his hair.

From out my store I fetched a brimming cupOf fragrant wine, and held it to his lip,Lifting all tenderly his hurt head up.Lest he should know me,—let the curtain slip

Between our faces. Long he drank, and deep,And muttered thanks to God, and stretched out wideHis great form on my bed, thus fell asleepSafe as the child his mother guards beside.

And there, within my walls, he lay at last,My enemy—my arch, arch enemy!I let my crimson passion loose, and castCurses for all the wrongs he 'd done to me.

Crouching low at the bedfoot, still, oh, stillAs Fate relentless, long I watched him lieCurtained within the shadows red, untilHe seemed to lie there murdered bloodily.

Like deadly grave-robed figures, one by one,A cold procession passed before my gaze,The high bold-handed evils he had doneTo me, to mine, the ruin of our days.

I felt my hand close on my unsheathed sword—"The prayers of all your yesterdays" (I cried)"Must gain you pardon of the gracious Lord!"And he, unshriven, by my hot hate had died—

Had I not heard wild cries without my door,The acclamations of the multitude.My enemy stirred not in his stuporI drew the bedshades close, and waiting stood.

Then they were all about me in the place,Strange, furious faces, peering everywhereSeeking the hated stranger, whose foul traceHad left their village desolate as here.

"Show us Pasquale, show the devil hound,"And twenty eyes flashed sharper than the blade.They shrieked his name until I thought no swoundWas proof against the riot that they made.

I saw the naked unsheathed swords, I saw(My enemy—my arch, arch enemy!)Minions of justice, armed with hate and LawAnd my guest was asleep . . ." Myself am he"

(I said before the swords their home could find)."Draw me without," I prayed, "I would not fallHere where my children sleep." And they were kindAnd dragged me far without my own portal.

Ere they could send my soul to hell unshrivenPasquale's men came riding bright as dayMore time new sins to make, to cry to heaven,They bought Pasquale ... I write as I lay.

They say I shall not see another dawnBut I have had the sacred EucharistAnd write this for true knights to dream upon.

That day of his sore need, with broken browsAnd sightless eyes blinded with bloody mistHelpless, whilst his pursuers hounded onI had my enemy within my house.