Classic Poem

PART III .

Though to the Pagan priesthood
A triumph this might seem,
Few families there were who thus
Could in their grief misdeem;
For, oft in those distracted days,
Parent and child went different ways,
The sister and the brother;
And when, in spirit moved, the wife
Chose one religious course of life,
The husband took the other.

Therefore in every household
Was seen the face of fear;
They who were safe themselves, exposed
In those whom they held dear.
The lists are made, and in the urn
The names are placed to wait their turn
For this far worse than slaughter;
And from that fatal urn, the first
Drawn for this dreadful death accurs'd
Was of Pithyrian's daughter.

With Christian-like composure,
Marana heard her lot;
And though her countenance at first
Grew pale, she trembled not.
Not for herself the Virgin grieved;
She knew in whom she had believed,
Knew that a crown of glory
In Heaven would recompense her worth,
And her good name remain on earth
The theme of sacred story.

Her tears were for her father,
How he should bear this grief,
Poor wretched heathen, if he still
Remain'd in misbelief;
Her looks amid the multitude,
Who struck with deep compassion stood,
Are seeking for Pithyrian:
He cannot bear to meet her eye.
Where goest thou? whither wouldst thou fly,
Thou miserable Syrian?

Hath sudden hope inspired him,
Or is it in despair
That through the throng he made his way,
And sped he knew not where?
For how could he the sight sustain,
When now the sacrificial train
Inhumanly surround her!
How bear to see her when, with flowers
From rosiers and from jasmine bowers,
They like a victim crown'd her!

He knew not why nor whither
So fast he hurried thence,
But felt like one possess'd by some
Controlling influence;
Nor turn'd he to Diana's fane,
Inly assured that prayers were vain
If made for such protection;
His pagan faith he now forgot,
And the wild way he took was not
His own, but Heaven's direction.

He who had never enter'd
A Christian church till then,
Except in idle mood profane,
To view the ways of men,
Now to a Christian church made straight,
And hastened through its open gate,
By his good Angel guided,
And thinking, though he knew not why,
That there some blessed Power on high
Had help for him provided.

Wildly he look'd about him
On many a form divine,
Whose Image o'er its altar stood,
And many a sculptured shrine,
In which believers might behold
Relics more precious than the gold
And jewels which encased them,
With painful search from far and near
Brought to be venerated here,
Where piety had placed them.

There stood the Virgin Mother,
Crown'd with a starry wreath,
And there the awful Crucifix
Appeared to bleed and breathe;
Martyrs to whom their palm is given,
And sainted Maids who now in Heaven
With glory are invested;
Glancing o'er these, his rapid eye
Toward one image that stood nigh
Was drawn, and there it rested.

The countenance that fix'd him
Was of a sun-burnt mien;
The face was like a Prophet's face
Inspired, but yet serene;
His arms, and legs, and feet were bare,
The raiment was of camel's hair,
That, loosely hanging round him,
Fell from the shoulders to the knee;
And round the loins, though elsewhere free,
A leathern girdle bound him.

With his right arm uplifted,
The great Precursor stood,
Thus represented to the life
In carved and painted wood.
Below the real arm was laid
Within a crystal shrine display'd
For public veneration;
Not now of flesh and blood, — but bone,
Sinews, and shrivell'd skin alone,
In ghastly preservation.

Moved by a secret impulse
Which he could not withstand,
Let me, Pithyrian cried, adore
That blessed arm and hand!
This day, this miserable day,
My pagan faith I put away,
Abjure it and abhor it;
And in the Saints I put my trust,
And in the Cross; and, if I must,
Will die a Martyr for it.

This is the arm whose succor
Heaven brings me here to seek!
Oh, let me press it to my lips,
And so its aid bespeak!
A strong faith makes me now presume
That when to this unhappy doom
A hellish power hath brought her,
The heavenly hand, whose mortal mould
I humbly worship, will unfold
Its strength, and save my daughter.

The Sacristan with wonder
And pity heard his prayer,
And placed the relic in his hand,
As he knelt humbly there.
Right thankfully the kneeling man
To that confiding Sacristan
Return'd it, after kissing;
And he within its crystal shrine
Replaced the precious arm divine,
Nor saw that aught was missing.