Classic Poem

On his little grave and wild,
Faustinus, the martyr child,
Candytuft and mustards grow.
Ah, how many a June has smiled
On the turf he lies below.

Ages gone they laid him there.
Quit of sun and wholesome air,
Broken flesh and tortured limb;
Leaving all his faith the heir
Of his gentle hope and him.

Yonder, under pagan skies,
Bleached by rains, the circus lies,
Where they brought him from his play.
Comeliest his of sacrifice,
Youth and tender April day.

“Art thou not the shepherd's son?—
There the hills thy lambkins run?—
These the fields thy brethren keep?”
“On a higher hill than yon
Doth my Father lead His sheep.”

“Bring thy ransom, then,” they say,
“Gold enough to pave the way
From the temple to the Rhone.”
When he came, upon his day,
Slender, tremulous, alone,

Mustard flowers like these he pressed,
Golden, flame-like, to his breast,
Blooms the early weanlings eat.
When his Triumph brought him rest,
Yellow bloom lay at his feet.

Golden play days came: the air
Called him, weanlings bleated there,
Roman boys ran fleet with spring;
Shorn of youth and usage fair,
Hope nor hilltop days they bring.

But the shepherd children still
Come at Easter, warm or chill,
Come with violets gathered wild
From his sloping pasture hill,
Playfellows who would fulfil
Playtime to that martyr child.