The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

Pancratius' grandsire left him ever free:
‘If good the heart,’ the man was wont to say,
‘Feed it with lore, but leave it liberty;
The good, wise heart will learn to choose its way:
Virtue means courage: man must dare and do:
Who does the Right shall find at last the True.’

The boy, though gay, was studious; swift to learn,
To him the acquest of knowledge was delight,
For his the sacred instinct to discern
How high true Knowledge wings the Spirit's flight.
The youth of Rome no comrades were for him:
Triflers he deemed them, fooled by jest and whim.

Often on that great plain which circles Rome
He spurred his steed Numidian; oftener far
In that huge wood which girt his lonely home
Sat solitary, while the morning star
Levelled along some dewy lawn its beam,
Or flashed remote on Tiber's tremulous stream.

Pacing its glades at times, he seemed to hear
Music till then unknown, a mystic strain
That sank or swelled alternate on his ear
Like long, smooth billows of some windless main.
‘Is this a dream?’ he mused; ‘if not, this wood
Houses some Spirit kind to man and good.’

One day he sat there, sad. The year before
That self-same day his parents both had died.
‘Where are they now? Upon what distant shore
Walk they this hour?’ For them, not self, he sighed.
‘They have not changed to clay; they live: they must:
But where, and how, I know not. Let me trust!

‘What loyal love maintained they each for each!
With what bright courage met they peril's hour!
How just their acts, how kind and true their speech!
They never drave the outcast from their bower:
Some great belief they must have held! In whom?
Believe I will! My altar is their tomb.’

Wearied with grief, the orphan sank asleep,
And, sleeping, dreamed. In dream once more he heard
That mystic music sweeter and more deep
Than e'er before; and now and then a word
Reached him, he deemed from shadowy realms beneath:
At times that word was ‘Life;’ at times 'twas ‘Death.’

Then, o'er the sheddings which the west wind's fan
Had strewn beneath the pine-woods, he was 'ware
That steps anear him drew; and lo! a man
Beside him stood. The sunset touched his hair
Snow-white, down-streaming from that reverend head,
And on his staff cross-crowned a splendour shed.

The dream dissolved: upright he sat, awake:
The Apostolic Sire of Christian Rome
Beside him stood—Cornelius: thus he spake:
‘Fear naught! I come to lead a wanderer home:
Thou mourn'st thine earthly parents. They are nigh
More than in life, though throned in yonder sky.

‘God's angel brought to each in life's last hour
That Truth they sought, both for their sake and thine:
They left thee in the flesh: since then in power
With love once human only, now divine,
Have tracked thy wandering steps: this day, O boy,
Through me they send thee tidings of great joy.

‘That God who made the worlds at last hath spoken:
The shadows melt: the dawn of Truth begins;
That Saviour God the captive's chain hath broken;
Reigns o'er the free: our tyrants were our Sins:

He reigns Who rose, that God for man Who died,
Reigns from the Cross, and rules—the Crucified.’

He told him all. As when within the East
The ascended sun is glassed in seas below
So that high Truth with light that still increased
Lit in the listener's mind a kindred glow
Because that mind was loving, calm, and pure
With courage to believe and to endure.

In blank astonishment he stood at first,
By Truth's strong beam though raptured yet halfdazed:
As when upon the eyes of angels burst
Creation new created, so he gazed:
He questioned; but his questions all were wise:
Therefore that Truth he sought became his prize.

Later he mused; then spake: ‘Whilst yet a child
Something I heard—my memory is not clear—
Of Christ, and her, His mother undefiled:
Alas! it sank no deeper than mine ear.
An old nurse whispered me that tale. Ere long
She died, some said, for God. Her heart was strong.’

An hour gone by, Pancratius made demand,
‘That heavenly music, came it from above?’
Cornelius then: ‘The persecutor's brand
Rages against us: not from fear but love,
Love of Christ's poor—the weak, the babe—we hide:
If found we die: to seek our death were pride.

‘Men scoff at us as dwellers 'mid the tombs:
Beneath your grandsire's woods, till late untrod,

Extends the largest of the Catacombs:
There dwells the Christian Church, and sings to God:
Our hymns betray us oft. Descending, thou
One day wilt hear them—When?’ He answered: ‘Now.’

That twain in silence passed to where the mouth
Of those dread caverns yawned; they stooped beneath;
Instant upon them fell that heat and drouth
Which Nubian sands o'er wayworn pilgrims breathe:
Red torches glared the winding ways among;
To roofs low-arched the lingering anthems clung.

Their latest echo dies: the Lector reads,
Then speaks: plain, brief, and strong is his discourse:
‘Brothers! each day ye know some martyr bleeds;
What then? Does any fear that fleshly force
Can slay the soul? God lives that soul within,
And God is Life. Death dwelleth but with sin.’

That eve Pancratius mused: ‘'Mid yonder vaults
God's servants live in love, and peaceful cheer:
Who rules in Rome? There Vice her crown exalts
Shameless yet sad; beside her, Jest and Fear.
That Lector told us of a shepherd boy,
The sling, the stone.’ That night was full of joy.

Then with a solace never his before
His thoughts reverted to his parents dead;
‘That Truth,’ he said, ‘they sought, yet missed, of yore,
Is theirs this hour: its crown is on their head;

Its sword within their hand. That Christ whom we
Discern through mist they in God's glory see.

‘Thank Heaven, my grandsire lives!’ Straight to his ear
He brought his tale. Upon that Roman's brow
Hung thunder-cloud: the thing supremely dear
To him were these, Reverence and Rule; and now
A boy, a child that daily ate his bread,
Had heaped dishonour on his hoary head.

‘Renounce thy madness, boy, or hence this day!’
Pancratius answered, with that winning smile
Dear to the sad man's heart, ‘Not so: I stay!
There cometh one your anger to beguile:
I told him you were good: thus answered he,
“Good-will means Faith: the Truth shall set him free.”’

Thus as he spake the mitred Sire of Rome,
Without disguise, his pastoral staff in hand,
Entered: ‘I seek, great sir, your ancient home,
By you unbidden, at this youth's command:
If this molests you, you can have my head:
The law proscribes, the Emperor wills me dead.’

Silent the Roman noble sat: anon
A glance on that strange guest at random thrown
Wrought in him change: then first he looked on one
Of presence more majestic than his own.
‘Cornelius is your name; unless I err.
Yours is that ancient stock Cornelian, sir.

‘Within this mansion I abide recluse;
I with the Emperor slight acquaintance boast,
None with his court. Such things may have their use;
They pass us quickly. As becomes a host
All guests alike I honour, old or new;
I war on no man, but converse with few.

‘Perhaps you come with tidings: if from me
Aught you require, speak briefly, without art.’
Cornelius smiled, then answered placidly,
‘To each the self-same tidings I impart:
Beside your house a gold-mine lurks; with you
Remains to sink your shaft or miss your due.’

Courteous that Roman bowed, yet scarcely listened;
Ere long he gave attention: by degrees
The strong, imperious eye now flashed, now glistened;
Point after point he seemed in turn to seize.
He proffered question none; he spake no word,
In mind collected, but in spirit stirred.

Lo! as some statued form of art antique,
Solon or Plato, sits with brow hand-propt
And eyes the centre of the earth that seek,
So sat he, when that strain majestic stopt,
In silence long. He raised his eyes, and then
Spake thus alone: ‘In three days come again.’

Three days went by; in that dim room once more
Cornelius spake: inly Pancratius prayed;
The old man listened mute. His message o'er,
The Venerable Sign the Pontiff made
Above that low-bent forehead. With it grace
Fell from on high and lit that hoary face.

Then questioned thus that man severe and grave:
‘What was the birthplace of this Creed decried
Which in all lands attracts the meek and brave?’
To whom the Roman Pontiff thus replied:
‘Judah—not Greece! Fishers, not Seers, went forth;
They preached that Creed, and died to prove its worth.’

His host: ‘This Faith is then at least no dream—
A dream, albeit perchance of dreams the best
In youth I deemed it, and dismissed the theme:
Pity 'tis new! 'Tis Time doth Truth attest.’
The answer came: ‘This Faith is old as man:
“The Woman's Seed.” It ends as it began.

‘This is that Faith which over-soars the sage
Yet condescends to him, the peasant boy:
This is that Hope which brightest shines in age
All others quenched: this is that Love, that Joy,
Which all retrieves; to patriots worn that cries
“Thy great, true Country waits thee in yon skies.”’

The Roman next: ‘The Creeds of ages past
Lived long; yet most have died; the rest wax old:
Yours is the amplest: it will prove the last:
For he who, having clasped it, slips his hold
Shall find none other. Of the seas of Time
This is high-water mark, stamped on the cliffs sublime.

‘Not less that question, “Is it true?” recurs.
What Virtue is, by virtuous life is shown:
She lights the paths she walks on; no man errs
Who treads them. Would that Truth might thus be known!
Sir, I must ponder these things. Agèd men
Perforce are slow. In ten days come again.’

In ten days more that Christian priest returned:
The Roman noble met him at the door,
But altered. ‘You are welcome! I have yearned
To see your face and hear again your lore.
At times I grasp it tight: but I am old:
Close-clutched it slides like sand from out my hold.

‘Mark well yon Sabine and yon Alban ranges!
The north wind blows; clear shineth each ravine:
Thus clear stands out your Creed; the north wind changes;
The clouds rush in, and vapours shroud the scene:
Thus dims more late that Creed. My end draws nigh:
Honest it were Truth's Confessor to die.’

Cornelius answered, ‘Sir, not flesh and blood
But God's own Finger wrote one sacred word
Upon your heart when by you first I stood:
That word was “Christ.” Brave man! In this you erred,
Not seeking then and there that conquering light
Which shines, like sunrise, on the baptism rite.’

Hour after hour, and far into the morn,
Those two conversed of God. That saintly sage
Witnessed, nor argued. ‘Truth,’ he said, ‘is born
Alike in heart of childhood and of age,
A spirit-birth. Invoke that Spirit Divine
And all His lore immortal shall be thine.’

To all demands he made the same reply:
Within that old man's breast—by slow degrees
Stirred like Bethesda's waters tremulously—
God's Truths put on God's splendour. ‘Men like trees

Walking,’ in mist at first such seemed they; then
They trod the earth like angels, not like men.

Sudden that old man rose; he cried, ‘I see!
Thank God! The scales are fallen from mine eyes!
I see that Infant on His Mother's knee,
That Saviour on His Cross, man's Sacrifice.
It could not but be thus! From heaven to earth
That Cross fills all; all else is nothing worth!’

At sunrise he received baptismal grace;
And ever from that hour its radiance glowed
A better sunrise on his wrinkled face,
For all his heart with gladness overflowed,
And childhood's innocence returned; and all
His childhood loved seemed near him at his call.

Once more the aspirations of his youth
About him waved their pinions; by his side
Now better known than when her nuptial truth
To him she pledged, beside him walked his bride;
And to that love he bore his Land returned
That hope, long quenched, wherewith it once had burned.

Still as of old his country's past he praised:
‘Numa revered one God; no idols crowned;
Two altars—holy were they both—he raised;
One was for Terminus who guards the Bound;
One was for Faithfulness who keeps the Pledge:
These spurned, he taught, all rites are sacrilege.

‘A matron wronged dragged down the race of Kings;
A virgin wronged hurled forth those Ten from Rome:

Omen and auspice these of greater things;
Of Truth reserved to make with her its home.
Man needs that aid! The proof? Man lives to act;
And noblest deeds are born of Faith and Fact.’

Yet, though before him ever stood the vision
Of that high Truth which gives the human soul
Of visible things sole mastery and fruition,
More solid seemed he, and in self-control
More absolute, than of old; and from his eye
Looked lordlier forth its old sobriety.

In him showed nothing of enthusiasm,
Of thought erratic wistful for strange ways,
Nothing of phrase fantastic, passion's spasm,
Or self-applause masking in self-dispraise:
Some things to him once great seemed now but small:
In small things greatness dwelt, and God in all.

Three months gone by, he freed his slaves; above
That rock, the portal of that Catacomb,
He raised an altar ‘To the Eternal Love’
Inscribed: more low he built his humble tomb:
‘Not far,’ he said, ‘repose God's martyrs: I,
Albeit unworthy, near to them would lie.’

In one month more serene and glad he died;
An hour ere death painless the old man lay,
Those two that loved him watching at his side:
‘In Christ, yet not for Christ,’ they heard him say;
‘This is the sole of Faiths, for which to bleed
Were wholly sage. My son had loved this Creed.’

The tidings that a noble of the old race
Had spurned the old rites transpired not till that hour
Which laid him in his woodland burial-place;
'Twas Diocletian's day: the Imperial power
Had made decree to trample to the ground
God's Church. A worthy victim it had found.

For when about the dead the Romans thronged
Much wondering at the unwonted obsequies
Nor pleased to see their old traditions wronged,
Pancratius answered, ‘Christian rites are these;’
Then made proclaim to all men far and nigh,
‘My grandsire died a Christian: such am I.’

Two pagan priests to Diocletian sped:—
‘Yon man who died an atheist left an heir;
Asian he is, a Christian born and bred:
Shall that new Faith with Jove and Cæsar share?
Usurp a Roman noble's place and pride?’
‘Bring here that youth,’ the Emperor replied.

That Emperor looked upon the Gods as those
Who shared his reign. In majesty and mirth
They sat enskied above the Olympian snows:
The Goddess Rome, their last-born, ruled the earth;
The Roman Emperor was her husband. He
Partook perforce in their divinity.

That Emperor was not cruel; from the height
Of that imagined greatness gazing down
To rule he deemed his duty as his right;
The world his kingdom was, and Rome its crown:
Who spurned that crown he deemed as sense-bereaven,
Rebel 'gainst earth, and blasphemous 'gainst heaven.

Next day at noon within his Judgment Court
He sat, by all his pomp of majesty
Compassed and guarded; lion-like his port;
Then whispered man to man: ‘That terrible eye
Without yon Lictors' axes or their rods,
Will drive the renegade to his country's Gods.’

Pancratius entered—entered with a smile;
Bowed to the Emperor; next to those around
First East, then West. The Emperor gazed awhile
On that bright countenance; knew its import; frowned:
‘A malefactor known! Yet there you stand!
Young boy, be wise in time. Hold forth your hand!

‘Yon censer mark! It comes from Jove's chief fane;
See next yon vase cinctured with flower-attire:
Lift from that vase its smallest incense-grain;
Commit it softly to yon censer's fire:
Your father, boy, was well with me; and I
Would rather serve his son than bid him die.’

Pancratius mused a moment, then began:
‘Emperor, 'tis true I am a boy; no more:
But One within me changes boy to man,
Christ, God and Man, that Lord the just adore.
A pictured lion hangs above thy head:
Say, can a picture touch man's heart with dread?

‘Thou, too, great Emperor, are but pictured life:
He only lives who quickens life in all:
Men are but shadows: in a futile strife
They chase each other on a sun-bright wall.
Shadows are they the hosts that round thee throng;
Shadows their swords that vindicate this wrong.

‘What Gods are those thou bidst me serve and praise?
Adulterers, murderers, Gods of fraud and theft.
If slave of thine walked faithful to their ways
What were his sentence? Eyes of light bereft;
The scourge, the rope! Our God is Good. His Name
Paints on His servant's face no flush of shame.’

The Emperor shook: as one demon-possessed
He glared upon that youth; his wan cheek burned:
With wonder dumb panted his struggling breast:
Silent to that Prætorian Guard he turned;
He pointed to Pancratius. ‘Let him die!’
Pancratius stood, and pointed to the sky.

That night a corse beside the Aurelian Way
Lay as in sleep. Hard by, two maidens fair
Now knelt and lifted high their hands to pray,
Now bent and kissed his cheek and smoothed his hair:
Two daughters of a Roman matron these:
A grove not far shook, moonlit, in the breeze.

O fair young love—for when could love show fairer?
O maids, should earthly love e'er house with you,
With love thus heavenly may that love be sharer;
Like this be cleansing, hallowing, self-less, true!
Thou too, O boy, love's guerdon hast not missed
Though young, by lips so pure so kindly kissed.

A youth he lay of fourteen years in seeming;
A lily by the tempest bent, not broken:
Round the lashed lids a smile divine was gleaming;
And if that mouth, so placid, could have spoken

Plainly its speech had been: ‘Thank Heaven, 'tis past!
The secret of the skies is mine at last.’

Softly those maidens with their mother bore
Pancratius to that grove, and made his grave:
O'er his light limbs the radiant scarfs they wore
Softly they spread. Such wreaths as grace the brave
On him they strewed next morn, and buds of balm;
And by that grave planted the martyr's palm.

Near it the Roman Walls ascend, and Gate
Aurelian called of old, Pancratian now,
Honouring that youth who smiling met his fate
So soon, so gladly kept his baptism vow.
King Numa's ‘Faithfulness’ in him was found;
Therefore old ‘Terminus’ guards still that bound.

Some say that when that Gate to him was given
A mystery therein was signified:
Earth hath her ‘Holy City;’ but in heaven
A holier waits us: one that aye shall bide:
Twelve gates it hath: each boasts high trust and fief:
The Gate of Martyrdom of these is chief.

Yea, and the Martyr is himself a gate,
Since through the fiery ether of his prayer
Which Vision blest kindles and doth dilate
Who strives for heaven finds help to enter there.
O Martyr young, by Death made glad and free,
In Death's dread hour pray well for mine and me!

University of Virginia Library

PART II.