Classic Poem

" WHEN Rome was Pagan still, a little band
Of ardent, generous youths who called on Christ,
Fled their idolatrous city, thinking scorn
To kneel to those false gods their souls abhorred —
And loathing that accursed heathen rout
Turned to the silence of the lonely hills
That brood round Ephesus, and found at length
Shelter and peace, within a winding cave
High on the rock-faced side of Caelian,
And there dwelt safe, lifting their gracious hymns
In worship to the Lord.
At last there came
Some heathen passer-by, who heard the sound,
And straight betrayed them. And the tyrant sent
His soldiers, and that none came forth again
Rolled in the narrow entrance monstrous rocks,
Which shut out air and light. Then when they knew
No change of night and day, and all their food
Had failed, came Heaven-sent sleep to close their eyes.
Deep sleep which knew no waking fell on them
For the long space of nigh two hundred years.

There they slept on, till now the conquering Cross
Prevailed, and 'twas a Christian Caesar ruled
Where raged the Pagan erst. For thirty years
The pious Theodosius swayed the might
Of Rome, and then the powers of evil bred
Dark heresies to rend the seamless robe
The Pagan might not. Doubting voices cried,
" No resurrection is there, but the body
Lies rotting in the earth, and the freed soul
Weltering upon the unbounded seas of space
Is lost within the Universe, nor more
Takes its old shape. What? did the prophets know,
Moses, Esaias, and the rest, this thing?
There is no place of souls nor judgment day
Of deeds done in the flesh, nor heaven nor hell,
Only upon the earth our kingdom is.
Be wise and occupy, for never indeed
Comes any resurrection of the dead;
The dead are gone, cleave to the living alone;
Use all your nature. Lives the flower again,
The brute that comes so near us, and is full
Of faithful love and reverence for man
As man for God? If all these die and pass,
Then shall not we? What else than arrogant pride
Blinds men to fact, and fools them with a world
No eye has seen, which all the seers of old
Knew not nor proved? Nay, surely it were well
To take our lives in our own hands, and tread
Our fearless paths not looking for reward
To any dim unreal sphere, but deem
Our individual life ends with the grave,
As ends the flower in frost; or if there come
Something of higher life, yet 'tis the Race
Which profits, naught beside; Wherefore in vain
Are all your hopes of Heaven, your fears of Hell,
Since 'tis not men who live again, but Man."

Thus having heard, the pious Caesar turned,
Struck cold with doubt, as one a palsy takes,
Making his limbs hang impotent, his will
Powerless to live or die. Alone he sate,
Hating the voice, hating his doubt, himself
Who doubted, and long time from sight of men
Withdrew himself and, clad in sackcloth, pined
With ashes on his head, yet found not peace
For all his penance, but the spectral doubt
Weighed on him like a nightmare night and day.

Now at the selfsame hour, when Caesar strove
With his immense despair, a humble hind,
Seeking to find a shelter for his flock,
Chanced on the secret cave of Caelian,
And toiling with his fellows rolled aside
The rocks which sealed its mouth, and went his way,
Nor entered; but when now, returning dawn
Flooded the long-sealed vault with cheerful day,
It pierced to where the sleepers lay, and breathed
Some stir of coming life, and they once more
Drinking the brisk sweet breath of early morn
Opened their long-closed eyes, and woke again
To the old earth, and kept the far off past
Unchanged in memory, and spake with mirth
Of their long sleep, and the fair dreams it brought,
And said a prayer, and sang a hymn, and then,
Urged by the healthy zest of vigorous youth,
Sent one among them, Malchus hight, to buy
Food for their hunger.
Fearfully he stole
Down the long steep to where great Ephesus
Shining beneath him lay. Scant change was there,
Only the stately house of Artemis
He found not where it stood. Half dazed he seemed
By too long sleep. But when he gained the gate
Of the city, on the walls behold the Cross!
The witness to the faith by which he lived,
The blessed symbol, which to own was death!
But still he seemed to dream, and wondering sought
Another gate, and there again the Cross!
And as he mused what portent 'twas he saw
The passers freely named the holy name
Which yesternight brought doom. Then with great joy,
Yet deep perplexity, he turned to greet
Some face he seemed to know, but it was strange,
And strange the fashion of the dress, and strange
The accent of the tongue, till, half afraid,
He sought where bread was bought, and offering gold,
The seller looking saw an ancient coin
Of Decius, and would ask him whence it came,
Deeming he found by some unhallowed spell
Forbidden treasure; and the youth's strange garb
And speech, and great perplexity, enforced
The doubt, so that they bound him fast and haled him
Through the long streets, where all in vain he sought
One friendly glance, to where upon his throne
The Bishop judged; and when the aged man
Questioned him of the thing, and what had been,
And sware him on the Cross, straightway the youth —
" We fled the tyrant Decius, who would bid us
Serve the false gods, and — was it yesternight? —
Rolled ponderous rocks to seal the cave where I
And my companions slept; but now, I pray you
What is it that has been? Bear you the Cross
And fear not? Call men now upon the name
Of Christ and dread not all the bitter pains —
The dungeon, and the torture, and the stake,
The tyrannies our fathers knew and we?
What change is this assails my ears and eyes —
Strange speech, strange vestments, forms and faces strange?
Where is the shining house of Artemis?
I pray you tell me what it is has been,
And whether I be alive or long time dead,
Deceived in dreams by long unnoted years'
Then fell the Bishop, full of pious awe,
Prostrate at Malchus' feet — the aged man
Before the spirit clothed with changeless youth,
Since well he knew what thing his eyes had seen —
A miracle of life, raised from the grave,
A miracle of Heaven. And all the throng,
Bishop and governor, with all the great
And noble of the city, white-haired lords,
And stately matrons, coming, knelt with him
Before the youth, o'er whose unwrinkled brow
Two hundred years had passed and left no sign —
Swift-coming age before eternal youth,
Brief life before the endless life of death.

Then went they forth, that noble throng, and all
The city, to where upon the Caelian hill
The seven youthful martyrs lay so long.
There in the cave, the blessed company
Sate cheerful, wondering much to see the throng,
With Malchus leading them; and as the array
Drew nearer, heard the sound of hymns, and saw
The sacred symbol borne on high, and knew
All that had been, and that the might of Wrong
Was broken, and the world was of the Faith,
And the false gods no more; and then they raised
Their clear accordant strains in praise to heaven,
And from their happy heads crowned round with light,
And from their cheeks red with the heavenly rose,
And from their lips touched with divinest song,
An effluent glory shone, and all who saw
Knew that their eyes beheld the blessed dead.

Last, Theodosius wrestling with his doubt,
And almost conquering, sped o'er land and sea
To see the portent, and when he was come
And stood before the place the Pagan erst
Sealed fast with monstrous rocks, on the young lives
Fresh vowed to Christ, and left them there to die,
He knelt in silence, and the fire of faith
Burned high in him, and dried the deeps of doubt.
And when he looked on those immortal eyes,
And that first bloom of an immortal youth,
His faith grew perfect, and he blest the Lord
Who sent the sign. Then, with one voice sublime,
The seven awakened spirits sang, " Believe,
Believe through us, O Caesar! We are dead,
And yet we live. Praise Heaven that we have seen
The faith triumphant. Ere the last great day
The Lord has raised us that men should be strong,
And doubt no longer, but believe indeed
The life and resurrection of the world."

And when their voices died away they bowed
Their heads upon their breasts, and kneeling, gave
Their spirits back to God; and all who saw,
And all who heard, Caesar, and all the throng,
Doubted no more, but rose and did believe. "

Which things, when I had heard, again I seemed
To hear my guide, " Know, thou that hearest me,
Through the round world this fair old legend runs
Where man is higher than the beasts that die.
The Hindu, dreaming on his seething plains,
Cherishes it; the fierce false prophet stole
The story; and throughout the fabulous East
It lives and thrives to-day; the frozen North
Holds it for true; o'er all the ancient world
Some fair faint blossom of the gracious tale
Lingers, and in the modern springs anew
In witness to the light-winged hours which snatch
The swift unconscious life from youth to age.
Too fair, too fleeting, change confusing change —
Change of a day which works the work of years;
Unchanging years, which seem but as a day! "

" But with still clearer voice, and sweeter tongue,
Thus speaks the legend: " Sleep and Death are one,
Not diverse, and to Death's long slumber comes
Awakening sure and certain, when the Dawn
Of the Last Day shall break, and shall unseal
The long-closed eyes, as that strong sun of Spring
Illumed the caves of sleep, and stirred the blood
Which else had slumbered still." Yet since no sign
Comes from our sleepers here, the yearning hearts
Which mark the struggling breath come short and faint,
The tired eyes close, and the calm peace which smooths
The weary brow — and feel 'tis sleep — no more —
Yet find no proof, cherish the legend fair,
Because life longs to be, because to cease
Is terrible, because the listening soul
Waits for some whisper from beyond the grave,
Waits still, as it has waited through all time,
Waits undismayed, whate'er its form of creed,
Nor fails, though all is silence, to hold fast,
Deep in its sacred depths, too deep for thought,
The Resurrection and the Life to be. "

'Twas an old man came next, who bore the palm,
Mild and of venerable mien, with hair
And beard of silver, yet his sunburnt cheek
Showed ruddy with the hue of health which still
Smiles like an Indian summer on the lives
Of those who, far from dust and toil of men,
Like the first Husbandman, breathe purer air,
And watch the opening flowers, the ripening fruits;
Changing their healthy toil for tranquil sleep,
And mingling works of mercy with pure thoughts
And meditations. Him indeed I knew not,
And yet half guessed his tale.
And this it was:

" In Pontus, by Sinope, dwelt of old,
Three centuries after Christ, an aged man,
Phocas by name. He to his lowly home
Retiring from the busy city, spent
His life in meditation on the Faith
Sweetening his honest toil. Day after day
Within his narrow garden-ground he found
Fit labour for his hands; eve after eve,
When the sweet toilsome day at last was done,
He strayed among the flowers and fruits his skill
Had reared — the roses red and white which filled
The air with perfume, like the fragrant flower
Of sanctitude; white cups adust with gold
Of lilies, pure as blameless lives, which breathe
Their sweetness to the heavens; the flower which bears
The symbols of the Passion; the mild roots
And milky herbs which nourish those white lives
That scorn to batten on the blood and pain
Of innocent dumb brutes; such honeyed fruits
As our first parents ate in Paradise —
Bright apples, golden pears, pink pomegranates,
The pendent purple of the trellised grape,
And blushing peaches, and the perfumed globes
Of melons; all the flowers and fruits the isles
Of the enchanted dim Hesperides
Bore in the fabled eld. Of these he took
Sufficient for his hunger, praising God,
And of the rest he gave of charity
To all the poor and weak, free without price,
Following his Master's word. And all the poor
And needy blessed him and revered the skill
Which reared them, and the venerable years
Of that good gardener. None who came to him
His generous hand denied, but he would give them
Shelter and food, and, when the day was done,
Converse on things Divine, and many a word
Of Truth which swayed the listener, if he were
A Pagan still, or heartened him indeed
If he already held and loved the Faith.

For while to some pure souls the thought, the dream,
The blessed vision are enough, the sounds
Heard by rapt ears, the opened heavens, the joy
Of contemplation only, when the sands
Of the desert or the cloistered vistas dim
Show ghostly 'neath the midnight stars; for some
Labour is best — not sordid labour vile
And turned to earth, but that which working still
For Heaven doth therefore gain a purer height
Than any; and for him the varied page
Of Nature painted by a hand divine
Brought meditation, and he found a voice
In every bursting flower and mellowing fruit;
In every life which, governing its way
By heavenly rule, lived on without offence
And did fulfil its part; in every weed
Which cumbered earth, yet doubtless were of aid
If we might read its secret; every growth
Of poison, which from the same elements,
The bounteous earth, the wooing of the sun,
The same fair fanning breezes, as the grain
On which our lives are nourished, waxed and grew
To deal out death and torment. Long he mused
On all these things — how one great Husbandman
Planted them all, and framed them as He framed
The tiger and the lamb; and so he gained
Mild wisdom from his daily task, and awe,
And wonder, which is kin to faith, and thence
True faith in God and man, and was content
To sow the seed of good within his soul,
As in the earth, and root the evil out,
And living only for the Faith, to work
And be at peace, leaving the rest to Him
Who sends in season, sun and rain and cloud
And frost, and in whose hand are flower and fruit
To give or to withhold, in earth and heaven.

Now, one fair summer eve, as Phocas sate
At supper, came a knock, and he in haste
Opening, three strangers waited at the door,
Whom he bade enter and take food and rest;
And when they were refreshed, he questioned them
What errand brought them. And they said in turn,
" We seek a certain Phocas — know'st thou him? —
Who dares to call on Christ, and have command
To slay him found." Then tranquilly the saint —
" Sleep now and rest. I know him. With the dawn
I will conduct you to him." And they slept,
Not dreaming whom they saw, and were content.

But he, when all the house was dark and still,
Stole out into his garden. The faint stars,
Pale in the radiance of the summer night,
Trembled above him; at his feet the flowers
He loved so well declined their heavy heads
And slumbering petals. One loud nightingale,
Thrilling the tender passionate note of old,
Throbbed from a flower-cupped tree, and round him all
The thousand perfumes of the summer night
Steeped his pleased sense in fragrance sweeter far
Than frankincense the skill of men compounds
In Araby the Blest. Then on the grass
He sate him down, rapt deep in musing thought;
And o'er him, ghostly white or gleaming red,
The roses glimmered, and the lilies closed
Their pure white cups, and bowed their heads, and seemed
To overhear his thought. " Should he then fly,
To live a little while, leaving his home
And all that made it dear, the flowers, the fruits
He loved, and preach the Faith a little yet
Before Fate called him? Surely life is sweet
To tranquil souls, which scorn delights and take
Something of Heaven on earth; ay, sweeter far
Than the old haste of flushed and breathless chase
Strong pulses, vaulting projects, hot designs
To capture worthless ends. Haply 'twere well
For this, to leave the solitude he loved
As others wife or child"
But as he mused,
The thought of full obedience filled his soul;
Submissive to the Heavenly Will which sent
Those fatal messengers, and destined for him
The martyr's crown, and swayed and took so fast
His doubtful mind, that presently he rose,
As one whose purpose halts not — rose and went
As in a dream, and coming brought a spade
And softly, half in dreams, began to delve
The flower-lit turf, within a sheltered nook
O'ergrown with roses and the perfumed gloom
Of blossomed trees. And as he wrought, he laid
Turf upon turf, and hollowed out a space
In the fresh virgin mould which lay beneath,
Shaped deftly in the semblance of a cross,
Large as might take the stature of a man
And still half dreaming, nor confessing yet
What thing he did, deeper and yet more deep
He dug and laboured, till with earliest dawn,
Just as the waking birds began their song,
He flung the last mould upwards, smoothing fair
The edges of the trench, and knew at length
That all night long he laboured at his grave.

And at its foot were lilies white and gold,
And at its head were roses white and red,
And all around a pitying quire of flowers
Bent down regarding it; and when he saw,
Still half as in a dream, he whispered, " Lo!
The narrow bed is ready; ere 'tis day
The sleeper shall be laid in it, and prove
Unbroken slumbers blest, until the peal
Of the loud Angel wakes him from the skies."

Then to his home returning grave and slow,
He sought his guests, on whom the new-born day
Was rising. They with half-awakened eyes
Greeted their coming host, and, bidding him
Good morrow, rose and took the frugal meal
His care provided. Then the question came,
" Hast brought him whom we seek?" And he: " I have.
And they: " Where find we him?" And he: " Behold,
I am the man — none else." Then deep distress
Took them, and great perplexity, who knew
The man whose life they sought the same who gave
Shelter and food. But he, revolving all,
The martyr's palm and that unchanged resolve
Of the still night, bade them take heart for all
Their duty bade them. And he led them forth,
Through maiden flowers fresh opened to the day,
Brushing the dewdrops from them as they went
To where, set round with blooms, they found his grave
Fresh delved in daisied turf, and there they bound
Their willing prisoner, and the headsman's axe,
Even as he knelt, a smile upon his lips,
By one swift, skilful blow and merciful,
Upon the grassy margin, painlessly
Severed his life. And there they laid him down,
Amid the joyous matins of the birds,
In the cool earth; and by his head there sprang
Sweet roses red and white, and by his feet
Deep-chaliced lilies mingled white with gold;
And there he waits the day the just shall rise
And bloom, as these on earth, beyond the skies. "

But when I heard the gracious tale, which showed
Like some fair blossom with a fragrant heart,
Thus would I answer: " Blameless anchorite,
Meek martyr, self-betrayed, some saints there be
Whose youthful suffering draws a readier tear
Than thine; and yet, for me, that duteous life
Of honest toil for others, that great faith
Thou show'dst, that simple eagerness to bear
The martyr's palm, that night beneath the stars
Of summer, fashioning thy flower-decked grave,
That lonely suffering, mark thy life and death
With a more calm and gracious note than theirs
Who, 'mid the applauding saints around, the throng
Of heavenly faces stooping from the skies,
In the arena dauntless met their end;
A simpler nor less touching piety
Than theirs who, 'mid the dust of mortal strife,
Shed their pure lives upon the sullen sand "

And then it was a girl who seemed a youth,
With pure sweet eyes, wearing a monkish garb,
Within whose arms a young child nestled close,
While she along the fields of Paradise
Plucked lilies for it. Spotless innocence
Shone from her, and around her comely head
A finer motherhood. And thus the voice:

" In Egypt long ago a humble hind
Lived happy. One fair daughter of his love
Was his, a modest flower, that came to bless
The evening of his days. But time and change
Assailed his well-loved home, and took from him
The partner of his life; and when the blow
Had fallen, loathing of the weary world
Seized him, and, leaving his young girl behind
With some who tended her, he went his way
Across the desert sands, and in a cave
Long time he lived, a pious eremite
Withdrawn from men. But when the rapid years
Hurried his child to budding maidenhood,
Knowing the perils of the world, his soul
Grew troubled, and he could not bear the dread
That day and night beset him for her sake;
So that his vigils and his prayers seemed vain,
Nor bore their grateful suffrage to the skies,
Since over all his mind would brood a doubt
For her and her soul's health, revolving long
How she should 'scape the world and be with him,
Because no woman might draw near the cell
Of any pious hermit. At the last
He counselled her, taking the garb of man,
To come to him, leaving the world behind;
And the fair girl, loving her sire, obeyed,
And lived with him in duty to the end.

And when he died, leaving the girl alone,
The brethren of a cloistered convent near,
Seeing the friendless youth, and pitying
His loneliness, and holding high his love
For his dead sire, offered him food and home
Within the holy house; and there he served,
A young man in the blossom of his age,
Sweet natured, pious, humble, drawing to him
The friendship of the youths, the love of maids

But all his soul was rapt with thoughts of Heaven,
Taking no thought for earth, and so it came
The youthful Brother grew in every grace
And great humility, and was to all
Example of good life and saintly thought,
And was Marinus to the monks, who loved
Their blameless serving-lad, nor knew at all
That 'twas a maid indeed who lived with them.

Now, as in all humility he served,
The Abbot, trusting him beyond the rest,
Would send him far across the desert sands,
With wagons and with oxen, to the sea,
As steward for the House; and oftentimes
The young man stayed far from his convent home,
With some rude merchant who purveyed their food;
And oft amid the wild seafaring folk
His days were passed, and coarse disordered lives;
And oftentimes the beauty of the youth
Drew many a woman's heart who deemed him man
But still the saintly tenour of her way
The maiden kept, serene, with innocent eyes,
So that before her face the ribald rout
Grew sober, and among the styes of sense
Unstained she walked in spotless purity,
A youth in grace, keeping a virgin heart.

But one, the daughter of his host, would cast
A loving eye upon him — all in vain;
For careless still he went his way, nor took
Heed of her love nor her, and oftentimes
He would reprove her of his maiden soul,
Knowing a woman's weakness, and would say,
" Sister, I prithee think of whom thou art,
And set a watch upon thy feet." But she,
Hating the faithful candour of the youth,
Fell into utter wretchlessness of sin;
And when her sire, discovering her disgrace,
Threatened her for her fault, a shameless thought
Seized her, and she, with feigned reluctancy,
Sware he deserted her, and with her child
Came to the saintly Abbot, where he sate
Judging the brethren. Then great anger seized
The reverend man that at his heart he nursed
A viper which thus stung him, and he cried,
" Vile wretch, who dost disgrace our holy house!
Thou hypocrite, soiling the spotless robe
Of saintly purity! I do denounce
Thy wickedness. No longer canst thou be
A brother to thy brethren here, who live
Pure lives unstained. My sentence on thee is
That thou be scourged, and from this reverend house
Go forth in shame, and work what viler work
The brethren find for thee; and this poor child
Take thou with thee, and look that thou maintain
Its growing life, since thus thy duty bids thee
Or if my mercy spare thee from the stripes
Thou hast deserved, 'tis for its sake, not thine
Go, get thee gone, and never dare again
Pollute my presence."
Long she strove to speak,
But her lips formed no word. And then she rose
Meekly, and, answering no word, went forth,
Bowed down with shame, and yet not ill content,
Deeming it but the penance which her sins
Had merited. And when the little one
Stretched forth its hands, she clasped it to her breast,
Her virgin breast, and all the sacred glow
Of motherhood, which lurks within the hearts
Of innocent maidens, rising soothed her pain;
And, wandering forth, she found some humble hut
For shelter. There by alms and servile tasks,
'Mid great despite of all who knew her once
In days of honour; hungry, lonely, poor,
And ofttimes begging bread, she pined long time,
Till the young life Heaven gave her, throve and grew
In happy innocence, and all who passed
Might hear twin voices mingling in the hymns —
The father's, who was mother, and the child's —
And wondering went their way.
So that pure soul
Grew tranquil, even on earth. Yet in her heart
Deep down the rankling sorrow dwelt, and burned
The sources of her being, and sometimes
Her penance grew too hard, and almost broke
The bonds of silence; then again her soul
Took courage, persevering to the end,
Knowing her sins, and how the pain she bore,
Though undeserved, was nothing to the sum
Of her offence, dear heart! and hoping from it
The fair reward of utter faithfulness.

But not the less the insults and the shame
Consumed her life and strength, and day by day,
When now the innocent she loved had grown
To happy childhood, weaker and more weak,
Her failing forces waned, till on her bed
Stretched helpless lay the maid. And when she knew
Her hour was come, she summoned to her side
An aged woman whom she knew of yore,
What time she seemed a frank and eager youth,
Ere her shame took her; and when she was come,
Quickly with trembling hand she beckoned her,
Giving her charge, when she was dead, to take
Her child to the good brethren, with her prayer
That they should keep it safe
Then with weak hand
She bared her innocent virgin breast and smiled,
A sad wan smile, and, looking up to Heaven,
Breathed her last breath.
And she who saw, amazed,
With mingled joy and tears, composed with care
The virgin limbs, and wrapped her in her shroud,
And hasting to the convent with the child
Left orphan, told the tale. And when he heard,
The holy Abbot knelt with bitter grief
All night before the altar, asking grace
Of Heaven, that he had wronged that saintly soul
By base suspicion; and the brotherhood
Bewailed the pure girl-saint, who bore so long
In blessed silence taunts and spite and shame,
Obedient and in great humility "

And then I saw a reverend figure come,
Walking with meditative steps and slow,
Who listened as the blest Cecilia erst
To high celestial music, else unheard;
And straight I knew the Priest, from whose full heart
Welled a clear spring of quaint and sacred song,
And seemed again to tread the dewy meads
Of Sarum, and to see the thin spire pierce
The sunset skies, as I by Bemerten
Strayed rapt in thought. And as we passed, my guide:
" Not of one Church, or age, or race alone
The saints are born, nor of one clime they come,
But 'mid the grass-green English landscapes dwell
Pure saintly souls, as by the slender towers
Of olive-grey Assisi, or white shrines
Washed by the purple sea. There, walked on earth
The saint thou seest, high of birth and name,
Yet lowly as his Lord, when once he gave
His life to Him, and with each day that dawned
Renewed his saintly vows, and lived content
For the brief years Heaven would
Not always turned
His soul to Heaven; the splendours of the Court
Dazzled his youth, and the fair boundless dreams
Of youthful hope. For he, by name and blood
A noble, 'neath our Abbey's reverend shade,
Amid the cloistered courts of Westminster,
Drank with deep draughts the lore of Greece and Rome,
And then within the time-worn Halls which watch
The slow-paced Cam; and there his studious eyes
Kept nightly vigil, and his sweet shy Muse
Tuned her clear voice for Heaven, a stainless youth
Who to his loved and gracious mother vowed
The firstlings of his song. For him the flow
Of sweet concordant descants soothed his soul
Till Heaven stood open. But not yet his thought
Turned to the Altar, since in high respect
And favour of his king, he stayed to take
What high advancement his unwearied thirst
For knowledge, and his gay and polished wit,
Wielding the tongues of France and Spain, and thine,
Great Dante, and his courtly presence clad
In robes of price, might offer. Then at length,
When now his growing soul grew sick of Courts,
Yearning for Heaven, the hand of Death removed
His potent friends, and last, the king himself;
And one by one the fetters broke which bound
His soul to earth, and soon he turned to hear
His mother's pleading words; and, stronger still,
The voice within which called him set him free —
Free from himself and wholly vowed to God.

Then, when the courtiers scoffed at him and bade him
Pursue some nobler life and worthier,
Thus made he answer: " Though the sacred name
Of priest be now despised, yet will I strive
To do it honour. All my little store
Of learning cheerful will I yield to Him
Who gave it, grieving sore I yield Him naught
Who made me His. Oh, let me strive to be
Likened to Him, and make Humility
Lovely in all men's eyes, following still
My merciful meek King."
So he became
As servant of the Altar, for awhile
A deacon only, fearing yet to take
The priestly office. At the last, when now
His struggling years had reached life's midmost way,
Whence turn our faces homewards, weak in frame
Though strong in spirit, 'mid the golden meads
He ministered a priest, where the gray spire
Of Sarum points to Heaven, and consecrates
The rich low vale with grace. There he should see
Three brief and saintly years before the end.

There from him all his courtly robes, his silks,
His sword, he put away, and in the garb
Of priesthood did indue himself, and vow
His contrite soul to Heaven. Within his church,
With all doors closed, he passed, as the law bade,
To take full seisin, and, their pastor now,
To toll, with his own hand, the bell which called
The faithful. Then because he came not back
After long hours, they sought him, and, behold,
Through the low casement looking, saw the saint
Prostrate before the altar, rapt in prayer
For strength to do God's work; and there he framed
His rule of life, and vowed to keep it still.

Even so the good Priest lived his tranquil days,
His saintly helpmeet working with him still
In alms and prayer. Daily the orisons
Of those pure souls, and theirs who dwelt with them,
Three orphaned girls, rose morn and eve to Heaven,
Following the sober uses of their Church,
Matins and vespers. All the country side
Loved that white life, and knelt with reverent hearts
Whene'er within the little oratory
The daily Liturgies were sung. The hind
Paused at his task when o'er the neighbouring leas,
Summer and winter, thrilled the solemn bell
That called the saint to prayer, and oftentimes
Touched by some new devouter impulse, left
The patient oxen at the plough, and knelt
Awhile within the reverend walls, and took
The good man's blessing, and returned with strength
Fresh braced for toil. Thus he, within a realm
Whereon the coming shadow of strife and blood,
The fanatic's guile and hate, the atheist's sneer,
Brooded already, and the darkling stain
Of worldly ease, and sloth, and sensual sin,
Renewed the pure devotion of a Church
Stripped of its Pagan gauds and robed for Heaven.

Ah! yet I see thee clearly, when the strain
Of unheard rhythms filled thy happy ears,
Wander from field to field; and on the road
To the great Minster, when thy soul had need
Of new refreshment, ever on thy way,
Hoarding faint echoes of a voice Divine,
Glow into fervent verse, and stone by stone
Build up thy " Temple;" and anon sit rapt,
Leaving thy humbler liturgies awhile,
Within the heaven-kissed fane the centuries
Mellow, and listen to the soaring chant
Sung daily still, the jubilant anthem's voice
Of praise, the firstborn precious harmonies
Of England's sacred song; the o'er-mastering joy
Of the full organ-music glooming deep
From aisle to aisle, or caught from height to height,
Till lost at last as at Heaven's gate, and thou
And thy rapt soul floated with it to joy.

" From the long wave of the Pacific Sea
Rise the enchanted islands of the West.
There the green surge, translucent, flowered with foam,
Flings its warm snows to kiss the stooping palm;
But from the deep's soft bosom rose no sound
Of rippling mirth, nor more the fair brown forms,
Half heathen, naked, joyous, crowned with flowers,
Rode high as erst on the caressing wave,
Because some strange immedicable hurt
Consumed them, and they pined in hopeless pain,
Despairing, till a servant of the Lord
Was sent to them with succour for their need,
And cleansed the desperate souls, which, struck by doom,
Cursing their fate, turned them to reckless ill;
And gave his life to serve them, till he died,
A leper in their midst.

*****

But while his long laborious days he spent
In service of his Lord, his pitying eyes
Took many a sight of grievous misery
Which naught might heal. For on those happy isles,
Where sea and sky wear a perpetual smile,
And all the lavish earth with flower and fruit
Laughs always, and from out the odorous gloom
Of blossomed trees a myriad creepers hang
Laden with perfume, and the feathery fronds
Of giant ferns spring upward twice the height
Of a man's stature, and bright birds flash by
On jewelled wings, a thousand brilliant hues,
Flower-like, among the flowers, and the clear sea
Holds in its azure deeps a thousand lights
Of sapphire scales, or gold, or glowing red,
Or tints which match the rainbow's all in one,
Brighter than any which the cunning skill
Of painter limns; and, 'midst the tropic wealth
Of lustrous blossoms strange to Northern eyes,
Sweet roses blush, and lilies sprent with gold
Droop their fair heads, and starry myrtles wake
Memories of classic grace; — amidst all these
And the poor joyous lives which, crowned with flowers,
Like the old careless gods of Pagan eld,
Let the hours pass, and were content, nor knew
Our Northern cares, nor thought of Hell or Heaven,
Naught but delight; there came long years ago,
Brought from the teeming East, a dreadful ill,
Which naught might cure, and seized those hapless limbs,
And rotted them away, mere death in life,
Maimed horribly, and losing human form
And semblance, till at last the wretched spirit
Released itself and fled. And since the touch
Of hand or robe was thought to take with it
The dread contagion, from the land they chased
Those hopeless sufferers, to where there rose
Sheer from the Southern Sea the frowning cliffs
Of Molokai. On its northern edge
The island blossoms into purple peaks,
With soaring heads veiled in a fleece of white.
There down each steep precipitous gorge the gleam
Of leaping waters issuing from the clouds
Lights the dark cliffs, and, where a sunbeam strikes,
Sparkles in rainbow mists; while at the foot
Of those great walls, just raised above the surge,
Stretches an emerald plain, white with the homes
Of lepers, none beside.

But many a saintly form I knew, and passed
Without a word, because no vision long
Endures, and that for all no mortal life
Might well suffice. Did I not mark thy fair
Nude youthful grace, Sebastian — beautiful
As young Apollo on the Olympian hill,
Or Marsyas, his victim — fettered fast
And pierced by rankling shafts while thou didst raise
Thy patient eyes to Heaven? Saw I not thee,
Oh sainted childlike Agnes, with thick locks
Of gold, which, grown miraculously long,
Guarded thy maiden modesty; or thee,
S. Agatha, with thy white wounded breast —
Martyrs and saints? Or thee of recent days,
S. Vincent, who thy late-enfranchised years,
Freed from the prison bonds thou long hadst borne,
Didst spend in works of mercy, and didst care,
As might a father, for the childish lives
Forlorn which no man heeded? Saw I not
Thee, saintly Jeremy, whose daily feet
Paced 'neath the long-armed oaks of Golden Grove,
Above our winding Towy; or thy mild,
Benevolent gaze, good Howard, who didst die,
Christ-like, for souls in prison? Saw I not,
Blessing our land, thy apostolic form,
Dear Wesley, through whose white soul Love Divine
Shone unrefracted, whose pure life was full
Of love for God and man, whose faithful hand
Relit the expiring fire, which sloth and sense
And the sad world's unfaith had well-nigh quenched
And left in ashes; or thy saintly friend,
Fletcher of Madeley, clean consumed of faith
And ruth for perishing souls; or thee, whose zeal
Laid all thy learning at His feet who gave it,
Eliot, apostle to the dying race
Of the Red Indian, on their trackless plains
Preaching in their own tongue the gracious news
Thy learning opened; or thy comely form,
Brave Dorothy, who thy abounding life,
'Neath smoke-stained skies, 'mid coarse and brutal souls,
Gavest to the maimed and sick, content to be
A happy life-long martyr, and didst die
Alone at last of hopeless torture-pains
Incurable, yet cheerful barest thy cross
Even to the end; or ye, oh priceless lives!
After long years of terror, day and night,
Till death itself seemed better than your dread,
Shed for the Faith by many a savage isle
Of the Pacific seas; or ye whose graves
'Mid fever-swamps or silent forest depths
The Moslem slaver mocks, sent to sure death
For Africa. Nay, nay, I marked ye all,
But might not tarry more, so vast has grown,
Lost in dim eld, and longer, hour by hour,
The ever-lengthening pageant of the Blest.

And then I marked no other name men know,
For now we passed along the close-set files
Of saints and martyrs, bearing each the palm,
Discerned no more by robes antique, or mien,
Or speech, but of the modern centuries,
And as we live to-day. So thick they rose
Streaming from earth, as when the autumnal year
Sheds its fair throng of meteors on the sky.
So those pure souls, white with a glittering train
Of light, flashed upward, till I might not take
Count of their number, for of every race
And hue and creed they came, of every age,
Both young and old — all to the heavens above
Ascending; and an infinite thankfulness
Took me, and joy, because our day, that seems
To some so void of faith, so full of pain
And chilled with deadly doubt, not less than those
The faithful ages might, sent forth its tale
Of victories of the Faith. Nor bore they all
The name of Christ, but some there were who held
The old unchanging Faith from whence He came
Whom yet their fathers slew, and some who called
On that ascetic Prince who draws the East
With some faint law of Mercy and of Love
For all created essences, one hope
To be with God, even though Man's nature rush
To His as doth the river to the sea,
Absorbed in Him for ever; and of those
To whom the fierce false Prophet calling, taught,
Though stained with fanatic zeal and grovelling sense,
Amid the noise of base idolatries,
The unity of God, the pure, the wise,
Who sits to judge the world; there came who left
The sensual stye and rose above the din
Of the world's wranglings, and who were indeed
His saints, though Him they knew not.
But of all
The most part were of Him, each Christian race
Sending its cloud of witnesses to swell
The innumerable host. There, came the thralls
Of Duty, willing servants old and young,
Who love the bonds that bind them, knowing well
Their fealty freedom; men who toil enchained
Of household care, knowing not rest nor ease,
For those they love, and live their briefer lives
Unmurmuring; and grave statesmen who toil on
To the laborious end, though life sink low,
Whom natural rest allures, but strive on still
While the sharp tooth of slander gnaws their souls;
Or women who have given their ease, their life,
To weary cares, nor heed them if they know
Their children happy; or who from the hush
Of cloistered convents serve with prayer and praise;
Or who amid the poor and lowly folk
Of all the Churches, as their Master erst,
Toil amid sin and pain, and are content
To live compassionate days and ask no more
Of wages for their service, but, consumed
Of pity, give their lives to save the lost
And hopeless; or who love to minister,
Spurning the weakness of their sex, the bloom
Of delicate ease, and grace and luxury,
And, 'mid the teeming homes of healing, bend
To succour bodily ill, while night by night
The sick and maimed, in restless slumbers tost,
Lie groaning till the dawn, and cries of pain
Wring the soft hearts whose duty binds them fast,
While the gay festive hearths of friends or home
Thrill with sweet music and the rhythmic feet
Of careless youth and joyance, and the rose
And lily of their gentle girlhood wait
Their coming, but in vain, till youth is past,
And with it earthly love. All these fair souls
In one incessant effluence of light
Soared from the earth, the army of the saints
Who in all time have set themselves to work
The Eternal Will.
And yet not all of pain
And suffering were they, who thus leaving earth,
Rose to high Heaven. To some, high sacrifice
Is joy, not pain. For some, from youth to age
The even current of their lives flows on,
Broken by scarce a ripple, scarce a cloud
Veiling the constant blue — the daily use
Of humble duty, the unchanging round
Of homely life; the father's work, who toils
Ungrudging day by day, from year to year,
To keep the lives he loves, and dies too soon
His children round his bed, nor knows at all
The tremours of the saint; the lowly tasks
Which fill the unchanging round of busy lives,
And keep them pure; the willing, cheerful care
Of mothers. Wert thou not among the throng,
Dear life long fled, who, after tranquil years
Unbroken and unclouded by great griefs
Or bodily pains, on the sad year's last day
Wentest from us: who threescore years and ten
Didst wear thy children's love; whose pitying hand
Was always open; whose mild voice and eye
Drew rich and poor alike, a soul that soared
Not on great sacrifice, indeed, or high
And saintly pains, but trod life's level plain
As 'twere high snows, and daily did inform
Earth with some hue of Heaven; on whose loved tomb
No word is graven, save thy name and date
Of birth and death, because it seemed that none
Might fit the gracious life and beautiful,
Whose glory was its humbleness, whose work,
Built of sweet acts and precious courtesies,
The exemplar of a home? Nay, well I know
High Heaven were not Heaven, wanting thee
And such as thou. Within the gates of God
Are many mansions, and each saintly soul
Treads its own path, fills its own place, but all
Are perfected and blest.
And yet how few
Of that great congress saw I. He who keeps
Lone vigils with the stars notes on night's face
Some ghostly, scarce-suspected vapour gleam,
And turns his optic-glass to it; and, lo!
A mist of suns! wherefrom the sensitive disc
Fixes the rays, first scattered, then more dense
With longer time, star after hidden star
Stealing from out the unimagined void
And twinkling into light, till on its face
Those dark unplumbed abysses show no speak
Of vacant gloom, a white and shining wall
Of glomerated worlds, broad as the bound
Which feeble fancy, yearning for an end,
Builds round the verge of Space. So that bright throng
Grew denser as I gazed, till Heaven was full
Of the white cloud of witnesses, who still,
As always since the worlds and Time began,
Stand round the throne of God.
Then while I gazed,
As in that vision fair which filled the eyes
Of the blest seer of Patmos, suddenly
The angels with veiled faces cast them down
Prostrate, and then a peal of glorious sound,
Mightier than any sound of earth, which chased
My dream, and well-remembered words I heard
" Blessing and Glory, Wisdom, Thanksgiving,
Honour, and Power, and Might be unto Thee
For ever and for ever. "
Then methought
My soul made answer:
" Yea, and victory
Over Thy Evil. Not Thy saints alone
Are Thine, and if one soul were lost to Thee,
Thine arm were shortened. All the myriad lives
Which are not here, but pine in bitter dole,
Do Thou redeem at last, after what toils
Thou wilt, in Thine own time, of Thine own will,
Purged, if Thou wilt, by age-long lustral pain,
Banished for long. Yet through new spheres untried
Of Being let them rise, sinner and saint,
Higher and higher still, till all shall move
In harmony with Thee and Thy great Scheme,
Which doth transcend the bounds of Earth and Time:
Still let them work Thy work. Yet bring them home;
Let none be lost! For see how far Thy Heavens
Are higher than our earth, how brief the tale
Of little years we live, how low and small
Our weak offence, transgression of a child
Grown petulant, on whom the father looks
With pity, not with wrath. On those dead souls
Which unillumined in the outer depths
Lie yet, too gross for Heaven, send Thou a beam
From Thy great Sun, and, piercing through them, wake
The good that slept on earth: and, like the throb
Of radiant light which pulses through the mist
With which Thy Space is sown, and wakes new worlds,
Atom by atom drawn or else repelled;
Or as the vibrant subtle note which thrills
Upon the sensitive film, and traces on it
Figure on figure, curve with curve inlaced
Into some perfect flower; so do Thou, Lord,
Sound with Thy light and voice the dumb dark depths
And, working on the unnumbered souls which lie
Far from Thee, shine and call, and, waking in them
A latent order, purge them. Make their will
Harmonious with the Will which governs all,
And orb into some higher form, and start
As Thy new worlds to life, till all Thy skies
Shine with recovered souls. Then shall it be
As those great voices would, and Thou fulfilled
Alike in Earth and Heaven. "


But as I woke
To this poor world again, almost with tears,
Not wholly did the vision fade, but still
Those high processions lingering with me seemed
To purify my soul. What was the world,
Its low designs and hopes, its earthborn joys,
Base grovelling pleasures, and unfruitful pains,
To those and such as they — those eyes that saw
Not earth, but Heaven; those stainless feet that trod
Through lilied meads of saintly sacrifice
And strange unearthly snows? Surely 'twas well
To have seen them clearer than the mists of earth
Concede to waking sight. Come thou again,
Fair dream, and often, till thou art a dream
No more, but waking. March to victory,
Great army, from the legendary Past,
Through the brief Present, where Life's pilgrims toil
To-day, and rise triumphant, or fall prone,
Prest by their load; through that unnoted tract
Of the dim Future which our thought pourtrays,
Far fairer than the world's sad Past; which yet
Shall have its struggles too, its sins, its wrongs,
Its saints, its martyrs!
March in spotless line,
Lengthening the ranks of those who, gone before,
Are now triumphant, till the End shall come,
Which hushes all our lower strifes, attunes
Discords to harmonies, rounds and makes complete
The cycle of our Lives; till Sacrifice
And Pain are done, and Death, and the Dread Dawn
Breaks which makes all things new, and the great Sun
Rising upon the worlds, dispels the Night
Of Man's sad Past, and routs the gathered clouds
Of Evil, and ascends a Conqueror,
Wielding full splendours of unwaning Day