University of Virginia Library

The days were evil; skies were dim,
When slowly walked with prayer and hymn,
Through stately street and market wide,
Where emperors once had ridden in pride,
Far other band than legions strong,
Raising far other battle-song.
In sackcloth clad, with dust besprent,
Men, women, children, onward went;
Each band, by white-robed elder led,
Marched on with reverent, measured tread;
And still, at every sacred shrine,
In presence of the Might divine,
With head uncovered, downcast eye,
They sang their seven-fold litany:

“Hear us, O God of heaven and earth,
Thou Lord of sorrow and of mirth,
Thou worker of the second birth,
Hear us, O Lord, and save:
From plague and famine, fire and sword,
From Pagans fierce and foes abhorred,
From death and hell, O gracious Lord,
From darkness and the grave:
Have mercy, Lord, on man and beast,
Mercy, from greatest to the least;
Be all from bonds of sin released,
Set free the captive slave:
O Lord, have mercy!” so they sang,
And through the air those accents rang,
Like sad sweet song of midnight breeze
Whispering soft music to the trees,
“O miserere, Domine.”
Fathers and children, youth and maid,
Their eager supplication made;
And e'en from bridegroom and from bride
The same sad music rose and died,
“O miserere, Domine.”
And last of all, no emperor now,
With orient diadem on his brow,
No triumph car bedecked with gold,
No purple chlamys' drooping fold,
But one, arrayed in garment white,
His face with gleam unearthly bright,
As one to whom the heavens all night
Their glory had revealed;
A smile through all the sorrow shone,
That told of peace, and victory won,
A fight well fought, a race well run,
And God his strength and shield.

So marched Gregorius, ruler sage,
Great glory of Rome's later age;
And next him came, with golden hair,
That floated wildly to the air,
With clear blue eyes and cheeks that showed
How fresh and full the young life glowed,
A troop of boys, whose unshod feet
Kept measured time to voices sweet.
Angli were they, from far off shore,
Where loud the northern surges roar,
Rescued from wrath, and sin, and shame,
Worthy to bear an angel's name.
These, crouching erst in brute despair,
Like wolf's young whelps in mountain lair,
Fettered and bound, and set for sale,
Each with his own sad untold tale,
The good Gregorius saw:
Some thought on home in distant isles,
A father's love, a mother's smiles;
Some feared the scourge, the bond-slave's name,
And some their doom of foulest shame,
And throbs of anguish rent their frame,
With power to touch and awe.

He saw and pitied; gems and gold,
From out the Church's treasures old,
In fullest tale of weight he told,
And gave their price, and set them free,
Heirs of Christ's blessed liberty.
And now they followed, slow and calm,
Each bearing branch of drooping palm,
Each lifting high a taper's light,
And clad in vestments pure and white;
And they, with voices soft and slow,
As streams 'mid whispering reeds that flow,
Still sang in mournful melody
That sad, unchanging litany,
“O miserere, Domine.”

So onward still they moved; at last
By Trajan's forum old they passed,
And there the memories of the place,
The tale of that imperial grace,
Flashed on Gregorius' mind, and led,
Ere yet the sunset glow had fled,
To strange new thoughts about the dead.
“Ah me!” he sighed, nor stayed from tears;
“Is he, whose name all Rome reveres,
The just, the true, the warrior brave,
Firm to his trust and strong to save,—
Is he where souls to darkness flit,
Gehenna's flames, the unfathomed pit?
Thy Name, O Lord, he had not known;
His knee ne'er bent before Thy throne.
He lived his life, through change and chance,
In darkness and in ignorance,
And ne'er, O God, Thy dread decree
His wandering steps led on to Thee.
And so he dwells, throughout the years,
Where neither sun nor star appears,
And all around is still the same,
One dreary waste of quenchless flame.
And must his doom, O Lord, be this,
That changeless future of the abyss?
Is there no hope for him whose will
Was bent all duty to fulfil,
Whose eye, discerning, saw aright
The false how foul, the true how bright?
He, Lord, had pity, so they tell,
On that poor child of Israel;
He heard the widow's anguished prayer,
And left her not to her despair.
And wilt Thou leave him, Lord, to bear
That doom eternal, full of fear?
Are prayers all powerless to atone
And bring the wanderers to the Throne?
Ah, Lord! whose pitying love ne'er spurned
The vilest, when to Thee they turned,
Whose glance, with gentle, pardoning eyes,
Where love was blended with surprise,
Looked on Rome's captain, Zidon's child,
And then, in accents low and mild,
Owned that their faith was nobler found
Than aught that sprang on Israel's ground,
And said'st that from the East and West
A countless host should share Thy rest,—
Wilt Thou not blot that just one's name
From out Thy book of doom and shame,
And write it in the record white
Of those who stand as sons of light?
My prayer, at least, shall rise for him,
By night and day, in chant and hymn;
For him I ask, on bended knee,
O miserere, Domine.”

So spake the grey-haired saint, and lo!
As o'er his sleep the shadows flow,
There came, in visions of the night,
The form of One divinely bright
(The nail-prints still in hands and feet),
And spake in music low and sweet:
“Fear not, thou wise and true of heart;
Fear not from narrowing thoughts to part:
And did'st thou feel the pain of love?
Could one soul's doom thy pity move?
And shall not mine flow far and wide,
As ocean spreads his boundless tide?
Is my heart cold when thine is warm?
Not so! cast off thy false alarm:
The man thou pray'st for dwells with me,
Where true light shines, and shadows flee.
The sins that sprang from life's ill chance,
Deeds of those times of ignorance,
These God hath pardoned. Just and right,
He owns all souls that loved the light,
And leads them, step by step, to know
The source from whence all good things flow.
Though yet awhile, in twilight rest,
They wait, as souls but partly blest,—
Though grief for all the evil past
The opening joy of Heaven o'ercast,—
Though still the crucial fire must pain,
Till dross be purged, and cleansed each stain,—
Yet doubt not, trust my Father's will
As just and good and loving still.
For those who sought the light, and strove
To keep the eternal law of Love;
For those who knew Me not, yet tried
To live for them for whom I died;
For all who upward, onward press,
In reverent fear and lowliness;
For all who give to child or saint
A cup of water as they faint,—
For these be sure that all is well,
I hold the keys of Death and Hell.”